UC-NRLF 


THE 

SECRET 

BOOK 


Gxplictt 


EDMUND  L.PEARSON 


THE  SECRET  BOOK 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

HEW  YORK   •   BOSTON  •   CHICAGO    •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •  BOMBAY   •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


The 

SECRET  BOOK 


BY 

EDMUND  LESTER  PEARSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  HOPPERGRASS 
"THE  OLD  LIBRARIAN'S  ALMANACK";  ETC. 


•NVm  fork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1914 

All  rights  reserved 


SCHOOL 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  April,  1914. 


To 
JOHN  COTTON  DANA,  ESQ. 

Sir:— 

To  you,  a  lover  of  books,  not  only  for  their  con 
tents,  but  for  their  dress  and  appearance,  I  would 
like  to  bring  one  written,  printed,  and  even  bound  by 
my  own  hands.  I  had  best  stick,  however,  to  the 
only  one  of  those  arts  which  I  know. 

Here  is  the  book,  then, — /  will  not  say  "such 
as  it  is,"  nor  "an  ill-favoured  thing,  but  mine  own," 
nor  use  any  of  those  phrases  of  mock-modesty. 
It  gave  me  pleasure  to  write,  and,  I  hope,  will  give 
you  pleasure  to  read. 

Moreover,  it  is  to  remind  you  not  only  of  gratitude 
felt  for  a  word  of  encouragement  spoken  at  the  right 
moment,  but  also  of  those  lucky  days  when  I  chanced 
upon  The  Old  Librarian's  Almanack,  that  secret 
book  of  Jared  Bean,  which  you  and  your  Brothers 
so  ingeniously  set  forth  in  type.  How  some,  of 
severe  and  acid  turn  of  mind,  preached  unto  us  upon 
the  s.tate  of  our  morals!  And  how  many  others,  of 
generous  temper,  rejoiced  and  made  merry  with  us! 
Will  you  ever  forget? 

I  am,  Sir, 

Your  Good  Friend,  and 
Obliged,  Humble  Servant 

EDMUND  LESTER  PEARSON 
NEWBURYPORT 
February  n,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  SECRET  BOOK i 

II.    RYERSON'S  ADVENTURES 22 

III.  DICKENS'S  SECRET  BOOK 44 

IV.  ON  PIRATES 70 

V.    A  NUMBER  or  THINGS 97 

VI.    FORGOTTEN  BOOKS 120 

VII.    LAURISTON 144 

VIII.    "BOOK-LEARNING" 150 

IX.    ?  ?  ?  I7o 

X.    IMMORAL  BOOKS 189 

XL    HOWTO  WRITE  A  "BEST-SELLER"  208 

XII.    OUT  or  THE  FOG 243 

INDEX  251 


NOTE 

A  large  part  of  this  book  has  been  contributed, 
in  different  form,  to  the  Boston  Evening  Trans 
cript.  Some  of  it  is  printed  now  for  the  first 

time. 

E.  L.  P. 


THE  SECRET  BOOK 


THE  SECRET  BOOK 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  SECRET  BOOK 

I  shall  never  again  visit  the  library  in  Gower 
Street.  Never  shall  I  sit  in  that  dim  alcove 
where  the  window  looked  out  upon  the  high 
wall  of  the  churchyard,  where  the  fog  blew 
by  like  smoke,  and  the  air  smelt  of  primroses. 
All  those  shelves  upon  shelves  of  books  are 
lost  to  me;  all  those  tall  folios;  and  the  duodec 
imos  in  vellum  with  odd  designs  in  gold  and 
ivory  upon  their  sides;  all  the  heavy  volumes 
with  curious  silver  clasps  set  with  garnets — 
and  there  were  hundreds  whose  covers  I  had 
not  so  much  as  opened!  I  shall  never  read 
again  in  that  slim  book  of  Louis  de  Villars — 


2  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

and  never — this  is  the  bitterest  regret  of  all — 
never  find  again  The  Secret  Book  of  Cassius 
Parmensis! 

Those  books  are  lost  to  me,  now;  the  old 
omnibus  never  passes  my  door,  and  the  con 
ductor,  who  had  a  bouquet  of  gentians  in  his 
hand,  has  disappeared  with  the  rest. 

Besides,  it  may  not  be  wise  to  go  back. 
For  I  murdered  the  old  man  who  was  there — 
infernal  old  prowler!  I  led  him  up  into  the 
garret,  and  finished  him,  and  stuffed  him  in 
under  the  eaves,  behind  a  chest,  among  dusty 
maps  and  things.  So  it  wouldn't  be  safe  to  go 
back. 

This  is  how  it  happened.  When  I  came 
home  from  Louisiana,  just  because  I  said 
I  had  a  headache  they  put  me  to  bed,  and 
brought  in  that  nurse  with  the  big  hands, 
and  began  to  give  me  hot  milk.  I  hate  hot 
milk,  and  after  I  had  taken  sixty-five  glasses 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  3 

of  it,  I  refused,  firmly,  to  drink  any  more. 
The  nurse  begged  me  to  take  it,  and  said 
she  would  do  anything  I  liked,  if  I  would 
drink  one  more  glass. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "you  give  me  a  first 
folio  Shakespeare,  and  I'll  drink  two  more." 

I  thought  I  had  her  there.  But  I  hadn't. 
What  did  that  viper,  that  snake,  of  a  woman 
do  but  go  out  of  the  room,  and  come  back 
again  with  a  first  folio!  You  can't  reckon  with 
a  person  like  that.  So  I  drank  the  milk,  and 
watched  her. 

Then  she  took  to  growing  older,  and  bring 
ing  a  bigger  thermometer  for  me  to  swallow 
every  time  she  came  in.  I  am  perfectly  willing 
to  swallow  a  decent  sized  thermometer,  but  I 
will  leave  it  to  anyone  if  a  thing  about  the 
size  of  a  rain-spout  is  a  Christian  thermome 
ter.  And  she  had  grown  ninety-five  years 
old,  and  ought  to  have  been  at  home,  mum 
bling  by  the  chimney  corner,  and  smoking  a 


4  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

pipe.  I  told  her  so,  but  she  wouldn't  go.  1 
I  tried  to  reason  with  her,  but  she  was  as 
stinate  as  a  mule. 

Then  it  struck  me  that  perhaps  she  di 
have  a  chimney  corner  to  mumble  in,  ar 
asked  her.  She  said  she  hadn't  one,  s 
apologized  (for  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  the 
creature's  feelings),  but  I  said  she  must 
somewhere  and  mumble.  I  put  it  to 
straight:  would  she  go  somewhere  and  mum 

She  said  she  didn't  know  how  to  do 
Ridiculous  quibble!  A  person  of  her  age 
told  her  it  was  time  to  learn,  and  I  off< 
to  pay  expenses  if  she  would  take  lessons 
would  foot  all  the  bills,  I  said,  and  put 
through  a  first-class  Institution  for  Mumbl 

Then  she  went  out  of  the  room  again, 
that  decided  me.     I  wouldn't  stay  until 
came  back,  for  she  got  ten  or  fifteen  y< 
older  every  time  she  went  away,  and  I 
not  going  to  stand  for  that  sort  of  thing. 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  5 

was  hideous  to  think  about.  Moreover,  she 
always  brought  a  bigger  thermometer  with  her, 
each  time  she  came,  and  I  had  gone  my  limit 
on  thermometers.  I  would  get  up  and  leave. 
There  would  be  plenty  of  time,  for  she  wouldn't 
return  for  at  least  ten  years. 

So  I  climbed  out  and  put  on  some  clothes. 
Then  I  went  down  stairs,  remembered  I  had 
no  money,  and  started  back  to  get  some. 
Luckily,  however,  I  saw  a  cent  on  the  hall 
table.  I  had  found  that  cent,  one  day,  on  the 
doorsteps,  and  left  it  on  the  table.  So  I  took 
it,  and  went  out. 

It  was  a  dark  day,  rather  foggy,  and  there 
was  a  little  snow  on  the  ground.  I  stood  at 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  and  pretty  soon  the 
omnibus  came  up  the  street.  The  driver  was 
waving  his  whip  in  the  air,  in  long,  slow 
circles  over  the  horses'  backs,  smiling  gaily, 
and  singing: 


6  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

'Course    I    know    I    hadn't    orter — 
Brandy  'n  water,  brandy  'n  water — 
Oh,  my! 

He  winked  familiarly  at  me,  and  drew  up 
at  the  curb.  I  was  helped  into  the  omnibus 
by  the  conductor,  who  had  a  fuzzy  red  beard. 
He  carried,  in  one  hand,  a  bouquet  of  blue 
gentians.  This  was  a  remarkable  thing  for  a 
conductor  to  do,  but  he  was  evidently  a  re 
markable  conductor. 

"This  'bus  only  goes  as  far  as  Henrietta's 
House,"  he  observed. 

"Oh,  that's  ever  so  much  farther  than  I 
want  to  go,"  I  replied.  And  I  handed  him 
my  cent.  It  was  a  big  cent — as  big  as  a 
saucer — and  he  put  it  into  the  breast  pocket 
of  his  coat.  The  top  of  it  stuck  out  and  I 
could  see  the  feathers  on  the  Indian  woman's 
head.  It  struck  me  that  it  looked  very  much 
like  a  sunflower,  and  the  same  idea  must  have 
come  to  the  conductor,  too,  for  presently  he 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  7 

drew  it  out  and  put  it  in  his  button-hole,  and 
it  was  a  sunflower.  Very  fine  it  looked  against 
his  red  whiskers. 

Presently  he  rang  the  bell  and  the  omnibus 
stopped. 

"This  is  Gower  Street,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  I  replied,  "then  I'll  get  out." 

He  detained  me  with  one  finger. 

"In  them  clothes,  sir?" 

I  looked  at  my  clothes.  I  had  on  a  suit  of 
pale  blue  satin,  with  silver  embroidery — as 
modest  a  thing  as  you  could  wish  to  see. 

"Certainly,"  I  answered,  with  dignity, 
"what's  the  matter  with  'em?" 

"Oh,  very  well,  sir."    And  he  rang  the  bell. 

I  ran  up  the  library  steps  and  pushed  open 
the  big  door.  There  was  no  one  inside,  but 
I  could  see  a  room  at  the  far  end,  behind 
a  glass  partition,  and  I  felt  sure  I  should  find 
somebody  there.  I  set  out  in  that  direction, 


8  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

but,  really,  it  was  astounding  how  far  I  had 
to  walk.  I  walked  and  walked  and  then  I 
walked  some  more.  All  the  time  I  could  see 
that  room  and  some  people  sitting  at  the 
tables,  but  it  took  me  twenty  minutes  or  half 
an  hour  to  get  there.  At  last,  however,  I  was 
at  the  door.  I  crept  quietly  along  by  the 
wall  and  peeked  in. 

It  was  just  as  I  had  suspected.  There  were 
the  Three  Old  Professors! 

They  were  sitting  around  a  big  table,  which 
was  piled  with  books,  charts  and  manuscripts. 
One  Professor  had  on  thick  rubber  spectacles, 
and  his  nose  was  about  an  eighth  of  an  inch 
from  a  sheet  of  parchment.  He  was  decipher 
ing  something  by  aid  of  a  magnifying  glass. 
His  thumbs  were  all  over  ink,  and  he  had  ink 
on  the  end  of  his  nose.  The  other  two  were 
growling  and  snarling  over  an  atlas — just  like 
two  hyenas  over  a  bone.  One  of  these  had 
such  long  whiskers  that  they  were  twined  in 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  9 

the  rounds  of  his  chair,  and  his  hair  was  full 
of  cobwebs. 

It  made  me  furious  to  see  them  there. 
Miserable  old  bookworms! 

I  drew  back  from  the  door,  and  wondered 
what  I  should  do.  Then  it  occurred  to  me, 
and  I  had  to  chuckle  as  I  thought  of  it.  The 
very  thing!  And  the  only  thing  possible — 
the  only  thing  that  would  do  a  bit  of 
good. 

I  opened  the  door  just  as  softly  as  I  could, 
put  my  head  into  the  room,  and — gobbled 
like  a  turkey! 

It  was  perfect! 

Nothing   better   could   have   been   devised. 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  And  it  was 
wholly  satisfactory. 

The  old  duffer  with  the  magnifying  glass 
jumped  up,  gathering  every  book  and  paper 
within  reach  into  his  arms.  Then  he  yelled: 

"Save  ' The  Book  of  Fools! '" 


io  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

And  dived,  head  foremost,  through  the 
window! 

One  of  the  others,  grabbing  an  armful  of 
volumes,  charged  blindly  at  a  door.  It  swung 
softly  on  its  hinges,  and  he  vanished  down  a 
flight  of  dark  stairs.  I  could  hear  him  going 
down — p-r-r-r-r-r-r  bump! 

The  other  simply  went  in  a  heap  under  the 
table;  a  trap-door  opened,  someone  reached  up 
with  a  hook,  and  hooked  him  neatly  through, 
and  out  of  sight. 

Wasn't  that  splendid?  I  laughed  until  I 
cried.  Then  I  thought  I  would  go  in  and  write 
a  poem  about  it,  to  be  sung  to  the  tune  of 
"Three  Blind  Mice."  So  I  pushed  open  the 
door  again,  and  went  in. 

"Delighted  to  see  you!"  said  the  attendant, 
hurrying  up. 

He  was  dressed  all  in  green  plush,  with  a 
little  brown  wig  and  pig-tail. 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  n 

"You  are  the  author  of  'The  Barley  Sugar 
Bat/  aren't  you?  Of  course  you  are!  De 
lightful  book — delightful!  I've  read  it  five 
times!  ...  Or  six.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  six. 
Come  right  this  way — the  Chief  Librarian  is 
waiting  for  you." 

He  led  me  through  long  corridors,  past 
dozens  of  hurrying  attendants,  to  a  door 
marked  "Chief  Librarian's  Office:  Very  Pri 
vate!" 

I  stopped. 

"You  won't  get  me  in  there,"  I  said;  "I 
know  him!  He'll  put  me  through  the  third 
degree.  He  thinks  I'm  after  a  job,  and  he'll 
make  me  feel  like  a  crawling  worm." 

"Oh,  very  well,  then.  Come  to  the  Read 
ing  Room — I  want  you  to  see  a  little  inven 
tion  we've  just  installed." 

He  pushed  open  another  swinging  door, 
and  we  stepped  into  a  large  room. 

"Twenty  tables,  you  see,  and  ten  seats  at 


12  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

each.  Now,  here  at  this  desk,  you  observe  this 
keyboard?  Two  hundred  buttons,  one  for  each 
of  the  seats.  Tables  are  lettered,  and  seats 
are  numbered.  Here's  a  plan  of  the  room." 

"What's  it  for?" 

"Sleep  preventer.  Yes,  sir.  Now,  for  in 
stance,  see  that  man  at  the  far  end?" 

He  pointed  to  a  fat  man  at  one  of  the  dis 
tant  tables.  The  man  had  his  head  back,  his 
mouth  open,  and  he  was  snoring  vigorously. 

"Just  refer  to  the  plan.  Locate  the  table, 
it's  K,  you  see.  Now  the  seat,  next  to  the 
end,  on  the  farther  side.  This  is  it,  No.  4. 
Now,  here  you  have  the  button  K  4.  Just 
press  it,  and  watch  the  man." 

I  pressed  the  button.  Instantly  the  man 
shot  into  the  air  with  a  howl.  Then  he 
hastily  began  to  examine  the  seat  of  the  chair 
in  which  he  had  been  sitting. 

The  attendant  in  green  plush  laughed 
quietly. 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  13 

"He  won't  find  it,"  he  said.  "A  very  tiny 
needle,  sterilized.  It  will  do  him  no  harm, 
and  lots  of  good.  We  find  the  invention 
entirely  satisfactory,  entirely." 

Then  he  turned  to  me. 

"You  wish  to  visit  the  Lost  Alcove,  of 
course?  Right  this  way!" 

He  opened  another  door  and  pushed  me 
through.  I  stumbled  against  a  flight  of 
stairs  and  raised  a  choking  cloud  of  dust. 
The  place  was  dark  and  very  unpleasant. 

"Here,"  I  said,  "I  don't  want  to  go  up 
these  stairs.  Where's  a  light?" 

I  fumbled  for  the  door.  But  it  was  locked, 
and  the  man  in  green  plush  had  vanished. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  climb  the 
stairs.  They  were  creaky  and  rickety,  and 
they  smelt  of  centuries  of  dust  and  desertion. 
Things  scurried  about  on  them,  and  things 
fluttered  and  cheeped  overhead.  I  did  not 
like  it,  and  I  was  glad  to  reach  the  landing. 


14  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

There  was  a  glimmer  here,  from  a  light  over 
a  tall  door.  I  turned  the  knob,  and  pushed  the 
door  open.  Another  long  passage,  but  it  was 
lighted  by  a  window  at  the  end.  Here  the 
passage  turned  a  corner,  and  for  the  rest  of 
its  length  opened  into  alcoves  on  either  side. 
Most  of  them  were  in  almost  absolute  dark 
ness — I  could  barely  make  out  books  upon 
the  shelves. 

A  man  was  standing  before  the  window  in 
the  farthest  alcove.  At  least,  so  I  thought, 
but  when  I  got  there  I  found  it  was  only  a 
bust  upon  a  pedestal — a  bust  of  some  absurd, 
fat-faced  English  monarch.  The  window  was 
covered  with  dust,  and  the  air  stuffy.  I 
raised  the  sash  and  thereby  got  more  light, 
and  some  air  fit  to  breathe.  A  winter  day's 
fog  blew  past  the  window,  but  I  could  see  the 
wall  of  a  churchyard,  and  smell  primroses — 
as  if  it  were  early  spring. 

Then  I  turned  to  the  books.     At  the  very 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  15 

first  glimpse  I  could  have  shouted  in  delight. 
Shelf  after  shelf,  row  after  row,  tier  after  tier, 
of  the  most  fascinating  books  imaginable. 
The  first  my  eye  fell  upon  was  Cardinal  Za- 
doni's  long  lost  work  upon  the  Eleusinian 
Mysteries.  There  was  the  treatise  of  Father 
Guiffard,  who  visited  ancient  Mexico  five 
years  before  the  coming  of  Cortez.  There 
were  the  lost  poems  of  Henri  d'Abbenant, 
and  a  perfectly  devilish  (I  use  the  word  in  its 
literal  meaning)  little  book  on  the  Witches' 
Sabbath,  dating  from  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  only  other  copy  known  to  have  existed 
in  our  times  came  into  possession  of  Walter 
Scott,  and  was  solemnly  burned  by  his  own 
hands. 

Thinking  it  over,  since  that  day,  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  could  not 
have  been  less  than  two  thousand  books  in 
that  alcove.  All  the  little  ones  were  on  the 
top  shelves;  the  elephant  folios  rested  upon 


16  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

the  floor.  The  books  were  arranged  by  size, 
as  in  the  imperial  library  at  St.  Petersburg 
(and  my  own  library  at  home)  and  a  very 
sensible  arrangement  it  is,  too. 

There  were  books  for  which  any  biblio 
phile  would  cheerfully  have  given  his  heart's 
blood — hundreds  of  them.  I  was  in  a  perfect 
tremble;  I  didn't  know  where  to  begin. 

Suddenly  I  saw — between  a  treatise  on 
metheglin,  and  a  preposterous  work  on  uni 
corns  by  an  Austrian  archbishop — The  Secret 
Book,  Liber  Crypticus,  of  Cassius  Parmensis! 

I  need  not  describe  my  sensations,  at  that 
moment,  to  any  lover  of  rare  books. 

Cassius  Parmensis,  not  to  be  confused  with 
the  "lean  and  hungry"  Cassius,  who  was 
quite  another  person,  seems,  nevertheless,  to 
have  been  one  of  the  conspirators  against 
Caesar.  He  was  murdered  in  Athens,  by 
order  of  Octavian.  Of  his  so-called  Secret 
Book,  or  Book  of  the  Satyrs,  there  is  no 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  17 

certain  knowledge  until  it  was  printed  (from 
a  manuscript  contemporary  with  the  author) 
in  Venice,  about  1510  or  1511.  It  fell  in 
stantly  under  the  ban  of  the  Church, — the 
Congregation  of  the  Index  seized  the  entire 
edition  and  burned  it.  They  burned  the  un 
fortunate  printer,  as  well. 

I  said:  the  entire  edition.  All  but  one 
copy.  That  was  stolen  by  a  monk,  and  it 
escaped  destruction.  The  book  disappeared, 
though  the  monk  was  caught,  and  presently 
strangled, — so  it  is  told,  by  the  authorities 
whom  he  had  defied. 

Once  more,  only,  does  it  appear  in  a  space 
of  nearly  three  hundred  years;  and  as  usual, 
it  is  attended  with  tragedy  and  bloodshed. 
On  a  night  in  August,  1553,  thieves  ransacked 
the  library  of  Diane  de  Poictiers,  and  stole 
from  it  The  Secret  Book.  No  one  knows 
how  it  came  into  the  possession  of  Diane. 
Two  of  the  robbers  were  killed, — another, 


l8  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

it  is  supposed,  made  his  escape  with  the 
precious  volume. 

For  more  than  two  centuries  and  a  half 
there  is  absolutely  no  mention  of  Cassius's 
work.  A  few  bibliographers  must  have 
known  of  its  existence, — one  or  two  of  them, 
Frenchmen  or  Italians,  make  guarded  refer 
ences  to  it. 

Then,  sometime  in  the  1840*8  (not  later 
than  1844,  thinks  Dr.  Boehm)  an  English 
traveller  and  antiquary,  named  Sedling, 
walked  into  a  shop  in  Madras,  and  pur 
chased  The  Secret  Book,  for  about  two 
shillings! 

Where  it  had  been,  what  its  history,  who 
had  owned  it,  how  it  had  made  its  way  to 
the  East,  how  all  knowledge  of  it  had  been 
hidden  during  this  long  space  of  time,  no 
one  can  tell.  Sedling  incautiously  wrote  to 
one  or  two  friends  in  England  of  his  dis 
covery,  sailed  for  home  a  few  months  later, 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  19 

landed  in  London — and  disappeared.  With 
him  vanished  The  Secret  Book. 

And  now  it  confronted  me  upon  a  shelf 
in  this  dim  and  dusty  alcove.  I  put  out  my 
hand  toward  it,  when  there  occurred  the 
unfortunate  business  of  that  accursed  old 
meddling  ninny  of  a  custodian, — or  whatever 
he  was. 

I  heard  him  shuffling  in  the  corridor  and 
looked  out  to  see  what  was  the  trouble. 
He  was  coming  down  some  twisty  stairs — 
with  a  duster!  That  infuriated  me  from  the 
beginning. 

I  sat  down,  and  began  to  read  the  first 
book  that  came  handy.  It  was  the  poems  of 
Louis  de  Villars;  I  would  do  nothing  to  let 
the  old  man  know  that  The  Secret  Book  was 
there:  it  was  impossible  that  he  knew  it 
already. 

Finally  he  came  into  the  alcove  and  leaned 
over  my  shoulder — leaned  over  my  shoulder 


20  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

as  I  sat  reading  the  divine  lyrics  of  Louis 
de  Villars!  Leaned  over  my  shoulder  and 
pointed  out  stanzas  and  quoted  poetry — 
poetry  that  he  had  written — the  old  pest! 
Then  he  went  out  and  pretty  soon  he  came 
back  again  and  interrupted  me  once  more. 

This  went  on  at  intervals  for  an  hour  or  so. 

I  warned  him;  I  warned  him  twice. 

Then  he  came  back  and  said  he  was  going 
to  lock  up  the  alcove  and  go  back  to  his 
room  in  the  garret,  and  that  I  must  get  out. 
I  was  ready  for  him  then,  and  I  asked  him  to 
let  me  see  where  he  lived  up  there.  He 
agreed,  and  I  followed  him  up  the  twisty 
stairs. 

I  did  it  with  a  knife — a  paper-knife.  I 
had  found  it  in  one  of  the  books,  and  it  was 
really  an  old  dagger,  very  sharp  and  very 
effective.  It  was  positively  the  first  time  I 
had  ever  murdered  anyone — anyone  of  im- 


THE     SECRET     BOOK  21 

portance,  that  is.    It  wasn't  hard  at  all.     He 
kicked  a  little,  but  not  much. 

But  then  came  the  tragedy.  When  I 
started  down  the  twisty  stairs  again  I 
couldn't  find  the  alcove.  The  stairs  turned, 
and  suddenly  brought  me  right  out  on  the 
street.  I  tried  to  get  back  and  ran  into  a 
blank  wall.  I  hammered  at  this  with  my 
fists,  and — 

"Do  you  want  anything?" 

It  was  that  nurse  again — she  was  only 
about  eighty-five  now — but  still  objection 
able.  I  simply  turned  over  and  refused  to 
speak  to  her.  It  was  the  only  dignified 
thing  to  do.  But  if  I  can  ever  get  that 
paper-knife  again — it  was  a  good  stout  one, 
with  gilded  dragons  on  the  hilt. 

Then  let  her  bring  up  the  subject  of  hot 
milk! 


CHAPTER  II 

RYERSON'S  ADVENTURES 

Lauriston  was  the  only  one  to  put  any 
faith  in  my  account  of  The  Secret  Book, 
and  my  sight  of  it.  But  that  was  to  be 
expected.  It  was  Lauriston  who  gravely 
proposed  to  call  our  Club  "The  Hell-Fire 
Club"  in  imitation  of  those  bygone  institu 
tions  of  the  blatantly  wicked. 

Not  that  he  had  any  especial  fondness  for 
such  a  name,  or  for  the  customs  of  such 
clubs.  (By  the  way,  what  were  the  customs 
of  Hell-Fire  clubs?  We  wrangled  about  it 
for  an  entire  evening,  and  no  one  seemed  to 
have  any  definite  information,  except  that 
there  was  a  vague  impression  that  they  used 
to  drink  burning  brandy.  This  struck  every- 


22 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         23 

one  as  a  futile  amusement,  and  the  dis 
cussion  languished.)  But  it  was  exactly 
like  Lauriston  to  make  the  suggestion.  The 
antiquarian  flavor  of  the  name  appealed  to 
him.  In  demeanor  he  was  the  mildest  of 
men, — capable  of  having  a  spree  on  Apolli- 
naris  and  crackers.  From  such  as  these 
come  always  the  most  lurid  suggestions. 

But  he  did  not  join  in  the  derision  with 
which  most  of  the  half-dozen  who  were  at  the 
Club  that  night  rewarded  my  tale  of  The 
Secret  Book.  I  had  given  them  a  short 
account  of  what  is  told  at  greater  length  in 
the  preceding  chapter.  It  was  the  first 
meeting  for  me  in  seven  or  eight  weeks.  But 
I  was  out  again  now,  the  nurse  was  packed 
off,  and  the  tyranny  of  hot  milk  was  past. 

"Don't  you  think/'  asked  Lauriston,  after 
the  jeers  had  ceased,  "don't  you  think  that 
perhaps  this  means  that  The  Secret  Book 
is  really  going  to  appear  again?" 


24  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

He  takes  dreams  and  visions  rather  seri 
ously,  and  admits  his  belief  in  second 
sight. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  began  Forbes  in 
his  withering  manner,  "that  you  believe  there 
really  is  a  Secret  Book,  and — " 

"Certainly,"  said  Lauriston. 

"Oh,  that  is  all  true  enough,"  I  assured 
him. 

"What!  About  Cassius  Thingumbob,  and—" 

"Absolutely.  Look  him  up,  if  you  don't 
believe  it,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  put  in  Sayles,  the  libra 
rian,  "there  is  some  mention  of  it  in  one  of 
Isaac  Disraeli's  books, — '  Curiosities  of  Liter 
ature/  I  think.  Andrew  Lang  speaks  of  it, 
and  so  does  Peter  Van  Der  Hoover." 

"Well,"  said  Forbes,  "I  thought  it  was 
simply  another  one  of  his  infernal  hoaxes." 

And  he  wagged  his  head  at  me. 

"But,   say!"   he  burst   out  again,   "what 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         25 

about  all  that  rot  about  murdering  the  man, 
and  so  on?" 

Forbes  is  a  bibliographer, — with  a  fine, 
literal  mind.  The  Lord  pity  him  if  a  bunco 
man  ever  gets  his  clutches  on  him! 

"As  to  that,"  I  replied,  "I  claim  the 
privileges  of  this  Club.  Anything  said  here 
is  in  confidence.  Of  course,  you  won't  tell 
the  police?" 

He  grunted,  and  reached  for  his  tobacco 
pouch.  Ryerson  shuffled  some  papers. 

" Shall  I  begin?"  he  asked. 

"'You  may  fire,  when  ready',"  remarked 
Sayles,  who  was  the  host. 

RYERSON'S  ADVENTURES 

The  desk  was  not  very  high — later  in 
vestigation  has  shown  it  to  be  about  five  feet. 
It  ran  along  one  side  of  the  library  room 
like  a  counter.  But  its  height  was  sufficient 
to  conceal  me  from  sight  of  the  librarian, 


26  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

who  only  became  aware  of  my  presence 
when  he  heard  my  voice. 

"I  want  to  get  a  book,"  I  said. 

Then  the  librarian  leaned  over  the  desk 
and  peered  down  at  me. 

"You!"  he  exclaimed. 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  especially 
appropriate  reply  to  this  remark,  so  I  did 
not  make  any.  The  librarian  continued  his 
inspection  of  me.  Finally  he  said: 

"What  is  your  name?" 

I  told  him.  Then  he  smiled  a  little  and 
inquired  if  I  were  sixteen  years  old.  No;  I 
was  not.  As  near  as  I  could  reckon,  I  was 
not  even  half  that  age. 

"But  you  can't  have  a  card  to  take  out 
books  until  you  are  sixteen." 

He  might  as  well  have  said  "until  you  be 
come  Emperor  of  China."  One  event  seemed 
no  more  remote  than  the  other. 

"But    Rob    Currier    takes   out   books,"    I 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         27 

urged,  "and  he  isn't  sixteen.  He  takes  'em 
out  on  his  brother's  card." 

"Oh,  well,  that's  different,"  he  replied; 
"has  your  brother,  or  someone  in  your  fam 
ily  got  a  card,  and  will  he  let  you  use  it?" 

"Yes,  sir.     My  brother." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

I  mentioned  the  name  of  that  influential 
magnate,  and  added — as  a  clincher — 

"He's  seventeen." 

The  librarian  hunted  up  my  brother's 
card,  took  a  book  down  from  the  shelf, 
stamped  the  card,  and  handed  the  book 
over  to  me.  This  was  going  rather  too  fast. 
I  had  an  idea  about  some  books  I  wanted 
to  read.  I  hesitated,  and  began  to  stammer. 

"But  I  wanted  to  get—" 

"That's  a  very  good  book  for  you  to 
read,"  said  the  librarian,  "and  now  run 
along  with  it.  When  you  have  read  that 
perhaps  you  can  have  another."  He  em- 


28  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

phasized    "perhaps"    as    though    there   were 
grave  doubts  about  it. 

I  ran — or  rather,  walked — away  with  the 
book.  When  I  was  out  on  the  street  I  looked 
at  it.  I  have  not  seen  the  book  since  that 
time,  but  I  recall  the  appearance  of  the 
title  page.  It  had  a  number  of  small  pictures 
upon  it.  One  of  them  showed  a  man  in  knee 
breeches  (and  very  fat  calves)  flying  a  kite 
in  the  face  of  a  dangerous  thunderstorm. 
Another  represented  a  man  seated  under  a 
tree  receiving  a  bump  upon  the  head  from 
a  small  watermelon,  which  (the  artist  evi 
dently  intended  us  to  believe)  had  just 
detached  itself  from  the  tree.  In  another, 
an  offensively  pious  looking  youth  was  look 
ing  at  a  teakettle.  My  subsequent  scientific 
researches  have  led  me  to  think  that  these 
persons  were  Benjamin  Franklin,  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  and  James  Watt.  The  book — as 
I  found  out  later,  when  I  got  home  and  tried 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         29 

to  read  it — was  full  of  information.  It  was 
probably  of  that  brand  known  as  "useful" 
information. 

There  is  a  familiar  form  of  advertisement 
which  represents  a  woman  in  a  shop  trying 
to  buy  Jones's  Imperial  Soap.  The  shop 
keeper — a  man  of  craft  and  guile  and  in 
finite  cunning — is  urging  upon  her  various 
other  brands.  He  says  that  they  are  "just 
as  good."  They  do  not  look  so  in  the  picture. 
They  have  a  poisonous  appearance.  Their 
very  wrappers  suggest  that  there  is  no  health 
in  them.  The  shop-keeper — you  can  see  it 
by  his  face,  and  by  his  side- whiskers — is  a 
snake.  But  he  cannot  fool  the  woman.  She 
is  a  noble  soul.  How  dear  she  must  be  to  the 
heart  of  Jones,  the  Imperial  Soap  man! 
She  firmly  insists  upon  the  Imperial.  "No," 
says  she,  "there  is  no  other  brand  as  good. 
I  will  have  Jones's  Imperial!" 

This   advertisement   always   recurs   to   me 


30  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

when  I  think  of  that  first  experience  in  the 
library,  or  when  I  hear  of  similar  events  in 
other  libraries.  If  I  had  only  possessed  the 
determination  of  that  woman  the  whole 
course  of  my  life  might  have  been  changed. 
For  it  was  a  momentous  event.  From  that 
one  book  I  imbibed  a  deep  and  abiding 
detestation  of  the  so-called  instructive  books. 
They  immediately  became  classified  in  my 
mind  with  cod-liver  oil  and  all  the  other 
abominations  which  are  "good"  for  you. 

If  I  had  not  had  this  book  crowded  upon 
me  at  a  critical  period  I  might  be  a  useful 
and  ingenious  member  of  society  today — 
the  proprietor  of  an  automobile  garage, 
perhaps,  growing  richer  and  richer  on  my 
ill-gotten  gains.  I  might  have  found  out, 
all  by  myself — and  with  great  enthusiasm — 
why  sparks  came  out  the  end  of  the  kite, 
why  the  pseudo-watermelon  dropped  down 
instead  of  up  (though  a  universe  in  which 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         31 

things  drop  up  has  always  seemed  to  me 
an  impossible  sort  of  place)  and  why  the 
teakettle  bubbled  the  way  it  did.  More 
than  that,  I  might  have  acquired  all  sorts 
of  handicraft  and  scientific  ability.  In 
stead  of  fluttering  helplessly  about,  making 
sympathetic  and  futile  remarks,  when  there 
is  something  the  matter  with  an  automobile 
in  which  I  am  being  treated  to  a  ride,  I 
might  be  able  to  act  in  an  energetic  and 
virile  fashion.  I  might  be  able  to  do  as  do 
the  more  gifted  owners  of  these  machines; 
put  on  a  disreputable  coat  and  disappear 
underneath  the  car  with  a  look  of  determi 
nation  and  a  monkey  wrench,  remain  there 
for  half  an  hour  swearing  vilely,  and  finally 
emerge,  lost  to  all  semblance  of  humanity, 
remarking  that  we  shall  all  have  to  walk 
to  the  nearest  town  and  find  someone  who 
will  tell  us  what  is  the  matter  with  the 
d d  thing.  I  might  be  able  to  build, 


32  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

with  infinite  labor  and  patience,  an  outfit 
of  electric  bells  for  my  house,  at  about 
three  times  the  cost  of  having  someone  else 
do  it  for  me.  I  might  be  able  to  put  a  wire 
less  telegraph  on  the  top  of  my  house  and, 
at  some  crucial  moment,  mess  everything  up 
in  such  a  fashion  as  to  drive  the  regular 
operators  into  insanity. 

Unfortunately,  I  learned  to  do  none  of 
these  things.  The  mere  fact  that  the  libra 
rian  gave  me  a  book  of  useful  information 
at  the  moment  when  to  read  a  story  was  my 
especial  desire,  seemed  to  kill  any  fondness 
which  might  have  developed  for  useful  books. 

There  were  other  books  in  that  library. 
Story  books,  fiction  books — good  books,  as 
I  came  to  call  them,  in  contra-distinction 
to  the  instructive  books.  But  it  was  often 
hard  to  get  at  them.  Useful  information 
and  morals  are  always  lurking  between  the 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         33 

covers  of  books,  eager  to  spring  upon  the 
unsuspecting  youth.  There  is  a  class  of 
authors  who  take  an  unholy  delight  in  luring 
their  readers  on  and  on  into  the  paths  of 
innocent  joy,  only  to  pounce  upon  them  at 
the  end,  with  a  sermon  or  a  treatise.  This 
sort  of  perfidy,  this  outrageous  bad  faith 
filled  me  with  rage  and  exasperation.  It  was 
totally  unfair,  I  thought — it  was  obtaining 
your  attention  under  false  pretences. 

You  are  glad  to  read  about  Frank  and 
Billy  and  how  they  reached  the  Osatch  River, 
closely  pursued  by  a  band  of  savage  Chippe- 
was.  But  how  are  they  to  communicate 
with  Old  Pete,  the  rough  and  ready  guide, 
who  is  in  the  fort  on  the  other  bank?  They 
had  better  shout,  you  think,  or  swim  across, 
or  you  are  even  willing  to  venture  into  the 
domain  of  science  so  far  as  to  allow  them 
to  do  a  bit  of  heliographing  with  the  pocket 
mirror,  which  Frank  always  carries.  But  no; 


34  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

the  scientific  author  is  not  going  to  let  you 
off  like  that.  He  wants  to  make  it  clear 
that  he  has  passed  Physics  B,  and  inciden 
tally  to  give  you  some  instruction  and  please 
your  parents,  who  otherwise  might  think 
that  it  was  a  sinful  waste  of  money  to  buy 
such  a  godless  book.  So  something  like  this 
follows  (while  the  Chippewas  remain  in  the 
wings). 

"X  square  plus  two  AB,"  remarked  Frank. 

"Four  times  the  coefficient  of  Z,"  returned 
Billy,  promptly. 

"If  this  staff,"  said  Frank  (they  always 
have  a  "staff"  in  these  books)  "casts  a 
shadow  equal  to  X,  what  will  the  shadow 
of  that  tall  sycamore  equal?" 

"Pi  R  square,"  replied  Billy. 

This  answer  seems  to  throw  light  on  the 
whole  difficulty,  and  they  proceed  to  con 
struct  an  electric  telegraph,  then  and  there. 
There  is  a  lot  of  merry  talk  about  ohms  and 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         35 

amperes  and  volts,  and  Frank  playfully  re 
minds  Billy  of  how  he  made  a  mistake  of 
two  decimals  when  they  worked  it  all  out 
before  under  the  instruction  of  Mr.  Dewsnap. 
They  discover,  or  manufacture,  batteries  out 
of  nothing  in  particular;  Frank  luckily  has  a 
pocketful  of  ohms,  and  they  come  across  a 
nest  of  wild  amperes  in  a  hollow  oak.  But 
long  before  they  got  the  work  finished  my 
sympathy  had  entirely  shifted.  From  de 
siring  them  to  escape  I  had  become  more 
than  anxious  for  the  Chippewas  to  appear  on 
the  scene.  I  wished  I  might  have  been 
their  chief.  Had  I  stood  in  his  moccasins 
for  half  an  hour,  two  scalps  would  have 
dangled  from  my  belt,  and  I  could  have 
named  their  owners. 

At  this  point  Sayles  begged  leave  to  avail 
himself  of  another  of  the  privileges  of  the 
Club, — that  is  to  interrupt. 


36  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"I  am  not  going  to  have  librarians  plas 
tered  with  all  this  abuse  about  their  supposed 
passion  for  useful  information/'  said  he. 
"We  suffer  from  it  in  others,  far  more  than 
we  are  subject  to  it  ourselves.  I  have  made 
some  notes  about  a  recent  experience  of 
mine,  and  I  was  going  to  read  them  at  the 
next  meeting.  But  I  think  they  fit  in  here, 
and  if  Ryerson  doesn't  mind — ?" 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Ryerson,  "I  have  prac 
tically  finished,  anyway." 

Sayles  went  to  his  desk  and  got  a  paper, 
from  which  he  read  what  follows. 

A  man  entered  the  library  one  day  last 
week,  and  walked  rapidly  up  to  my  desk. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  asked,  "what  was  the 
aggregate  public  debt  of  the  United  States 
on  the  first  day  of  November  last?" 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not,"  I  replied,  "but  I 
can  find  out  in  a  minute."  And  I  reached 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         37 

for   a   book   on   a   shelf   nearby.     The   man 
stopped  me. 

"You  needn't  look  it  up,"  he  said.  "I 
can  tell  you  right  now.  It  was  two  bil 
lion,  eight  hundred  and  thirty-one  million, 
three  hundred  and  thirty  thousand,  three 
hundred  and  five  dollars  and  sixty-six 
cents." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  the  man  said: 
"What  do  you  think  of  that?" 
"Beyond  a  vague  hope  that  I  shall  not 
be  called  upon  to  pay  it,"  I  remarked,  "I 
must  admit  that  the  statement  leaves  me 
perfectly  calm.  I  trust  that  I  am  a  patriot, 
and  if  this  vast  obligation  must  be  met, 
I  am  willing  to  advance  the  sixty-six  cents — 
though  I  believe  that  upon  a  pro  rata  system 
that  would  be  rather  more  than  I  should 
be  expected — " 

"That  is  not  what  I  mean,"  he  interrupted. 
"What  do  you  think  of  the  information?" 


38  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

I  had  been  wondering  what  was  his  object 
in  putting  a  question,  when  he  was  so  glib 
with  the  answer.  Librarians  meet  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men,  but  it  had  flashed 
through  my  mind  that  the  man  might  be 
working  up  an  article  for  a  muck-raking 
magazine  on  "The  Shocking  Ignorance  of 
Our  Librarians."  It  seemed  hard  that  he 
should  light  on  me.  But  I  return  to  our 
conversation. 

"The  information  seems  good,"  said  I,  "and 
important — if  true." 

"Do   you  wish  to  verify  it?"   he  asked. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  replied,  hastily;  "I  am 
content,  for  the  present,  with  your  unsup 
ported  statement." 

"Well,  then,"  he  continued,  "can  you 
tell  me  the  name  of  the  high  chief  ruler  of 
the  Independent  Order  of  Rechabites?" 

"Again,"  I  admitted,  "you  find  me  un 
prepared.  This  volume,  however — "  and  I 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         39 

stretched  my  hand  toward  a  book,  but  he 
stayed  me  with  a  gesture. 

"There  is  no  need  to  look  in  it.  Joseph 
C.  Eller  is  the  man." 

"And  I  have  no  doubt,"  I  returned,  as 
heartily  as  possible,  "that  he  fills  that  re 
sponsible  position  satisfactorily." 

"Here  is  a  third  one,"  said  the  man, 
pointing  his  finger  directly  at  my  thorax; 
"what  was  the  score  in  the  football  game 
between  Lehigh  and  Ursinus  last  fall?" 

"Lehigh  and  Ursinus,"  I  mused.  "I 
seem  to  have  missed  that  one.  Now  if  you 
had  said  between  Pennsylvania  State  and 
St.  Bona venture,  or  even  Swarthmore  and 
Hiram  College,  I  might  have  obliged  you. 
But—" 

"It  was  five  to  nothing  in  favor  of  Lehigh," 
said  the  man. 

"Ah,  yes;  so  it  was,  so  it  was." 

"Now  here,  is  another — " 


40  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

But  I  was  getting  tired  of  this  onesided 
business. 

"Suppose  you  let  me  come  into  the  game," 
I  suggested;  "I  don't  see  why  you  should 
do  all  the  questioning.  Do  you  know  what 
were  the  total  earnings  of  the  L.  S.  &  M.  S. 
last  year?  What  is  the  State  flower  of 
Arkansas?  Who  is  the  heir  to  the  duchy  of 
St.  Albans?  What  is  the  percentage  of 
deaf-mutes  in  Oregon?  How  many  steam 
laundries  are  there  in  Nicaragua?" 

"Do  you  really  want  to  know  the  answer 
to  those  questions?"  he  asked.  "Because 
if  you  do,  I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  that 
they  can  be  found  in  this — " 

And  he  reached  into  his  coat-tail  pocket — 
and  produced  a  small,  fat  book. 

"Are  you  a  book-agent?"  said  I,  in  an 
awful  voice,  hurriedly  searching  in  my  desk 
for  a  small  bottle  of  vitriol  which  we  keep 
there  for  such  occasions. 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         41 

"No,  no,"  said  he.  "Sell?  Why,  I 
wouldn't  sell  this  book  for  love  nor  money. " 

"I  shall  offer  you  neither,"  I  replied. 

"Why,  this  is  just  the  most  handy  book 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  Look — 'The  Handy 
Book  of  Useful  Information  Containing  Fif 
teen  Million  Absolutely  Indispensable  Facts 
for  the  Busy  Man  Together  with  All  That 
Anyone  Needs  to  Know  About  Every  Thing 
That  Ever  Happened  on  Land  or  Sea  In 
cluding  a  Complete  Encyclopedia  and  Dic 
tionary  of  All  Languages,  Cook  Book,  Bio 
graphical  Dictionary  and  Family  Medicine 
Recipes,  Embracing  the — '" 

"Stop,"  I  said,  "I  will  not  purchase  it." 
And  I  pressed  the  electric  bell  six  times, 
which  signifies  "Release  the  blood-hounds." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  sell  it.  Honest,  I 
ain't.  I  just  bought  it,  down  the  street 
there.  I've  been  looking  for  something  like 
this  for  years  and  years.  See — "  and  the 


42  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

wretched  man  pointed  to  the  page  with  a 
grimy  thumb — "see,  it  tells  the  exact  height 
of  all  the  principal  volcanos,  and  the  last 
dying  words  of  the  mothers  of  all  the  Presi 
dents  down  to  Garfield.  You  can  find  out 
from  this  table  when  Easter  will  come  in  1988 
and  the  precise  statistics  of  the  angora  goat 
industry  in  Montenegro.  Here  is  the  amount 
spent  for  benzine  in  New  York  city  during 
1911  and  the  vote  for  the  Prohibitionist 
candidate  in  Anne  Arundel  County,  Mary 
land,  at  the  last  election.  See, — " 

" Unfortunate  being,"  I  said,  "have  you 
any  real  work  or  occupation?" 

"Sure  I  have.  I'm  the  captain  of  a  tug 
boat." 

"Then  go  back  to  your  tugboat.  Go  back 
to  that  highly  honorable  and  interesting 
profession.  Leave  this  damnable  publication 
with  me.  I  will  see  that  it  is  cast  into  the 
furnace.  Already  the  horrible  desire  for  what 


RYERSON'S     ADVENTURES         43 

is  known  as  useful  information  is  sapping 
your  vitals.  It  will  go  on  and  on.  Here — " 
and  I  plucked  the  book  from  his  fevered 
grasp,  "and  here,  Amos,"  said  I  to  the 
janitor,  who  entered  at  that  moment,  "take 
this  poor  man,  gently,  and  lead  him  to  the 
street.  Hand  him  over  to  the  patrolmen, 
and  tell  them  to  take  him  home.  He  will 
be  all  right,  if  you  don't  excite  him.  Yes, 
perfectly  sober,  but  a  sad,  sad  case.  Don't 
let  him  stop  on  the  way.  Lead  him  past 
the  book-store  on  the  corner  quickly.  There 
— that's  right — careful,  now,  There." 


CHAPTER  III 
DICKENS'S  SECRET  BOOK 

"Perhaps/'  remarked  Ryerson,  mildly,  "I 
may  go  on,  now." 

A  week  had  elapsed,  and  this  was  another 
meeting  of  the  Club. 

"Go  right  ahead,"  said  Tilden,  heartily; 
"you  won't  disturb  us  a  bit." 

Tilden  and  Lenox  were  playing  piquet  in 
a  corner. 

"But  I,"  plaintively  exclaimed  Bronson, 
"have  prepared  a  paper  for  this  evening." 

"That's  right,"  said  Sayles,  who  was  the 
secretary,  "it  was  Bronson's  evening." 

Ryerson  made  a  satirical  salaam,  and  folded 
up  his  papers. 

"Say  no  more,"  said  he,  "I  withdraw." 

44 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK        45 

"Of  course,"  Bronson  continued,  "I  would 
n't—" 

"Don't  apologize.  It  will  only  make 
matters  worse.  I  am  already  offended  be 
yond  repair." 

Pretending  to  be  in  a  huff,  he  commenced 
to  poke  the  fire. 

"Last  winter,"  began  Bronson  again,  "I 
read  'The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood'  for  the 
first  time.  How  many  of  you  have  read 
it?" 

Only  three  out  of  the  eight  of  us  had  done 
so. 

"That's  the  usual  proportion.  You  fight 
shy  of  it  because  it  isn't  finished,  I  suppose. 
I  had  always  let  it  alone  for  that  reason, 
but  I  find  that  I  had  missed  a  great  deal 
of  fun.  Of  course,  I  became  an  advocate 
of  one  of  the  theories  as  to  its  solution — 
everyone  does — and  I  have  put  it  into  the 
guise  of  a  Sherlock  Holmes  story.  Every- 


46  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

body  feels   free   to   get   gay   with   Sherlock, 
so  I  needn't  apologize.     Here  it  is." 
So  saying,  Bronson  read 

SHERLOCK  HOLMES  AND  THE  DROOD  MYSTERY 

'' Watson, "  said  Sherlock  Holmes,  beaming 
at  me  across  the  breakfast  table,  "can  you 
decipher  character  from  handwriting?" 

He  held  an  envelope  toward  me  as  he 
spoke.  I  took  the  envelope  and  glanced 
at  the  superscription.  It  was  addressed  to 
Holmes  at  our  lodging  in  Baker  Street. 
I  tried  to  remember  something  of  an  arti 
cle  I  had  read  on  the  subject  of  handwriting. 

"The  writer  of  this,"  I  said,  "was  a  modest 
self-effacing  person,  and  one  of  wide  knowl 
edge,  and  considerable  ability.  He — " 

' '  Excellent,  Watson,  excellent !  Really, 
you  outdo  yourself.  Your  reading  is  quite 
Watsonian,  in  fact.  I  fear,  however,  you 
are  a  bit  astray  as  to  his  modesty,  knowl- 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         47 

edge,  and  so  on.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this 
letter  is  from  Mr.  Thomas  Sapsea." 

"The    famous    Mayor    of    Cloisterham?" 

"Quite  so.  And  for  pomposity,  egregious 
conceit  coupled  with  downright  ignorance, 
he  has  not  his  peer  in  England.  So  you 
did  not  score  a  bull's-eye  there,  my  dear 
fellow." 

"But  what  does  he  want  of  you?"  I 
asked,  willing  to  change  the  subject.  "He 
isn't  going  to  engage  you  to  solve  the  mys 
tery  of  Edwin  Drood?" 

"That  is  precisely  what  he  is  doing.  He 
is  all  at  sea  in  the  matter.  Come,  what 
do  you  say  to  a  run  down  to  Cloisterham? 
We  can  look  into  this  matter  to  oblige  the 
mayor,  and  take  a  ramble  through  the 
cathedral.  I'm  told  they  have  some  very 
fine  gargoyles." 

An  hour  later,  we  were  seated  in  a  train 
for  Cloisterham.  Holmes  had  been  looking 


48  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

through  the  morning  papers.  Now  he  threw 
them  aside,  and  turned  to  me. 

"Have  you  followed  this  Drood  case?"  he 
asked. 

I  replied  that  I  had  read  many  of  the 
accounts  and  some  of  the  speculations  on 
the  subject. 

"I  have  not  followed  it  as  attentively  as 
I  should  have  liked,"  he  returned;  "the 
recent  little  affair  of  Colonel  Raspopoff  and 
the  czarina's  rubies  has  occupied  me  thor 
oughly  of  late.  Suppose  you  go  over  the 
chief  facts — it  will  help  clear  my  mind." 

"The  facts  are  these,"  I  said.  "Edwin 
Drood,  a  young  engineer  about  to  leave  for 
Egypt,  had  two  attractions  in  Cloisterham. 
One  was  his  affianced  wife — a  young  school 
girl,  named  Miss  Rosa  Bud.  The  other  was 
his  devoted  uncle  and  guardian,  Mr.  John 
Jasper.  The  latter  is  choir-master  of  the 
cathedral.  There  were,  it  seems,  two  clouds 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK        49 

over  his  happiness.  One  of  these  was  the 
fact  that  his  betrothal  to  Miss  Bud — an  ar 
rangement  made  by  their  respective  par 
ents  while  Edwin  and  Rosa  were  small  chil 
dren — was  not  wholly  to  the  liking  of  either 
of  the  principals.  They  had,  indeed,  come  to 
an  agreement,  only  a  few  days  before  Edwin 
Drood's  disappearance,  to  terminate  the  en 
gagement.  They  parted,  it  is  believed,  on 
friendly,  if  not  affectionate  terms. 

"The  other  difficulty  lay  in  the  presence,  in 
Cloisterham,  of  one  Neville  Landless — a  young 
student  from  Ceylon.  Landless  has,  it  seems, 
a  strain  of  Oriental  blood  in  his  nature — he 
is  of  dark  complexion  and  fiery  temper.  Actual 
quarrels  had  occurred  between  the  two,  with 
some  violence  on  Landless's  part.  To  restore 
them  to  friendship,  however,  Mr.  Jasper,  the 
uncle  of  Edwin,  arranged  for  a  dinner  in  his 
rooms  on  Christmas  Eve,  at  which  they  were 
to  be  the  only  guests.  The  dinner  took  place, 


50  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

everything  passed  off  amicably,  and  the  two 
left,  together,  late  in  the  evening,  to  walk 
to  the  river,  and  view  the  great  storm  which 
was  raging.  After  that  they  parted — accord 
ing  to  Landless — and  Drood  has  never  been 
seen  again.  His  uncle  raised  the  alarm  next 
morning,  Landless  was  detained,  and  ques 
tioned,  while  a  thorough  search  was  made 
for  the  body  of  Drood.  Beyond  the  discovery 
of  his  watch  and  pin  in  the  weir,  nothing  has 
been  found.  Landless  had  to  be  released  for 
lack  of  evidence,  but  the  feeling  in  Cloister- 
ham  was  so  strong  against  him  that  he  had 
to  leave.  He  is  thought  to  be  in  London." 

"H'm,"  remarked  Holmes,  "who  found  the 
watch  and  pin?" 

"A  Mr.  Crisparkle,  minor  canon  of  the 
cathedral.  Landless  was  living  in  his  house, 
and  reading  with  him.  I  may  add  that 
Landless  has  a  sister — Miss  Helena — who  has 
also  come  to  London." 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK        51 

"H'm,"  said  Holmes.  "Well,  here  we  are 
at  Cloisterham.  We  can  now  pursue  our  in 
vestigations  on  the  spot.  We  will  go  to  see 
Mr.  Sapsea,  the  mayor." 

Mr.  Sapsea  proved  to  be  exactly  the  pom 
pous  Tory  jackass  that  Holmes  had  de 
scribed.  He  had  never  been  out  of  Cloister- 
ham,  and  his  firm  conviction  of  the  hopeless 
inferiority  of  all  the  world  outside  England 
was  so  thoroughly  provincial  that  I  suspected 
him  of  some  connection  with  the  "Saturday 
Review."  He  was  strong  in  his  belief  that 
young  Neville  Landless  had  murdered  Drood 
and  thrown  his  body  into  the  river.  And  his 
strongest  reason  for  this  belief  lay  in  the  com 
plexion  of  Landless. 

"It  is  un-English,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  he,  "it's 
un-English  and  &  when  I  see  a  face  that  is  un- 
English,  1  know  what  to  suspect  of  that  face." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Holmes;  "I  suppose  that 
everything  was  done  to  find  the  body?" 


52  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"Everything,  Mr.  Holmes,  everything  that 
my — er — knowledge  of  the  world  could  pos 
sibly  suggest.  Mr.  Jasper  was  unwearied  in 
his  efforts.  In  fact  he  was  worn  out  by  his 
exertions." 

"No  doubt  his  grief  at  the  disappearance 
of  his  nephew  had  something  to  do  with  that, 
as  well." 

"No  doubt  of  it  at  all." 
"Landless,  I  hear,  is  in  London?" 
"So   I   understand,    sir,    so    I   understand. 
But    Mr.    Crisparkle,    his   former   tutor,    has 
given   me — in   my   capacity   as   magistrate — 
assurances  that  he  can  be  produced  at  any 
moment.     At   present   he   can  be   found   by 
applying  to   Mr.    Grewgious,   at   Staple  Inn. 
Mr.   Grewgious  is  a  guardian  of  the  young 
lady  to  whom  Edwin  Drood  was  betrothed." 
Holmes  made  a  note  of  Mr.   Grewgious's 
name    and    address    on    his    shirt-cuff.      We 
then  rose  to  depart. 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         53 

"I  see,"  said  the  mayor,  "that  you  are 
thinking  of  paying  a  call  on  this  un-English 
person  in  London.  That  is  where  you  will 
find  a  solution  of  the  mystery,  I  can  assure 
you." 

"It  is  probable  that  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  run  up  to  London  this  evening,"  said 
Holmes,  "though  I  believe  that  Dr.  Watson 
and  I  will  stroll  about  Cloisterham  a  bit, 
first.  I  want  to  inspect  your  gargoyles." 

When  we  were  outside,  Holmes's  earliest 
remark  was,  "But  I  think  we  had  better 
have  a  little  chat  with  Mr.  John  Jasper." 

We  were  directed  to  Mr.  Jasper's  rooms, 
in  the  gatehouse,  by  a  singularly  obnoxious 
boy,  whom  we  found  in  the  street,  flinging 
stones  at  the  passers-by. 

"That's  Jarsper's,'"  said  he,  pointing  for 
an  instant  toward  the  arch,  and  then  pro 
ceeding  with  his  malevolent  pastime. 

"Thanks,"    said    Holmes,    shortly,    giving 


54  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

the  imp  sixpence,  "here's  something  for  you. 
And  here,"  he  continued,  reversing  the  boy 
over  his  knee,  and  giving  him  a  sound  spank 
ing,  "here  is  something  else  for  you." 

On  inquiry  it  appeared  that  Mr.  Jasper 
was  at  home.  He  would  see  us,  said  the  land 
lady,  but  she  added  that  "the  poor  gentleman 
was  not  well." 

"Indeed?"  said  Holmes.  "What's  the  mat 
ter?" 

"He  do  be  in  a  sort  of  daze,  I  think." 

"Well,  well,  this  gentleman  is  a  doctor — 
perhaps  he  can  prescribe." 

And  with  that  we  went  up  to  Mr.  Jasper's 
room.  That  gentleman  had  recovered,  ap 
parently,  from  his  daze,  for  we  heard  him 
chanting  choir  music,  as  we  stood  outside 
the  door.  Holmes,  whose  love  for  music 
is  very  keen,  was  enraptured,  and  insisted 
on  standing  for  several  moments,  while  the 
low  and  sweet  tones  of  the  choir-master's 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         55 

voice,  accompanied  by  the  notes  of  a  piano, 
floated  out  to  us.  At  last  we  knocked  and 
the  singer  admitted  us. 

Mr.  Jasper  was  a  dark-whiskered  gentle 
man  who  dwelt  in  a  gloomy  sort  of  room. 
He  had,  himself,  a  gloomy  and  reserved 
manner.  Holmes  introduced  us  both,  and 
informed  Mr.  Jasper  that  he  was  in  Clois- 
terham  at  the  request  of  the  mayor,  Mr. 
Sapsea,  to  look  up  some  points  in  connection 
with  the  disappearance  of  Edwin  Drood. 

"Meaning  his  murder?"  inquired  Mr. 
Jasper. 

"The  word  I  used,"  said  Holmes,  "was 
disappearance." 

"The  word  I  used,"  returned  the  other, 
"was  murder.  But  I  must  beg  to  be  excused 
from  all  discussion  of  the  death  of  my  dear 
boy.  I  have  taken  a  vow  to  discuss  it  with 
no  one,  until  the  assassin  is  brought  to  jus 
tice." 


56  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"I  hope,"  said  Holmes,  "that  if  there  is 
an  assassin,  I  may  have  the  good  fortune — " 

"I  hope  so,  too.  Meanwhile — "  and  Mr. 
Jasper  moved  toward  the  door,  as  if  to  usher 
us  out.  Holmes  tried  to  question  him  about 
the  events  of  Christmas  Eve,  prior  to  the  young 
man's  disappearance,  but  Mr.  Jasper  said 
that  he  had  made  his  statement  before  the 
mayor,  and  had  nothing  to  add. 

"Surely,"  said  Holmes,  "I  have  seen  you 
before,  Mr.  Jasper?" 

Mr.  Jasper  thought  not. 

"I  feel  almost  positive,"  said  my  friend; 
"in  London,  now — you  come  to  London  at 
times,  I  take  it?" 

Perhaps.  But  he  had  never  had  the  pleas 
ure  of  meeting  Mr.  Holmes.  He  was  quite 
sure.  Quite. 

We  departed,  and  as  we  strolled  down  the 
High  Street,  Holmes  asked  me  if  I  would 
object  to  spending  the  night  in  Cloisterham. 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         57 

"I  shall  rejoin  you  tomorrow/7  he  added. 

"But  are  you  going  away?" 

"Yes,  to  London.  I  am  going  to  follow 
Mr.  Sapsea's  advice,"  he  added  with  a 
smile. 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  see  the  gar 
goyles,"  I  objected. 

"So  I  did.  And  do  you  know,  my  dear 
fellow,  I  believe  I  have  seen  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  them  all." 

Holmes's  remark  was  entirely  enigmatic 
to  me,  and  while  I  was  still  puzzling  over 
it,  he  waved  his  hand  and  entered  the  omnibus 
for  the  station.  Left  thus  alone  in  Cloister- 
ham,  I  went  to  the  Crozier,  where  I  secured 
a  room  for  the  night.  In  passing  the  gate 
house  I  noticed  a  curious  looking  man  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  looking  attentively  at 
Mr.  Jasper's  window.  He  had,  I  observed, 
white  hair,  which  streamed  in  the  wind.  Later 
in  the  afternoon,  having  dropped  in  at  the 


58  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

cathedral  to  hear  the  vesper  service,  I  saw 
the  same  man.  He  was  watching  the  choir 
master,  Mr.  Jasper,  with  profound  scrutiny. 
This  made  me  uneasy.  How  did  I  know  but 
what  another  plot,  like  that  which  had  been 
hatched  against  the  nephew,  was  on  foot 
against  the  uncle?  Seated  in  the  bar  at  the 
Crozier,  after  dinner,  I  found  him  again.  He 
willingly  entered  into  conversation  with  me, 
and  announced  himself  as  one  Mr.  Datchery— 
"an  idle  buffer,  living  on  his  means."  He 
was  interested  in  the  Drood  case  and  very 
willing  to  talk  about  it.  I  drew  him  out  as 
much  as  I  could,  and  then  retired  to  my 
room  to  think  it  over. 

That  he  wore  a  disguise  seemed  clear  to 
me.  His  hair  looked  like  a  wig.  If  he  was 
in  disguise,  who  could  he  be?  I  thought 
over  all  the  persons  in  any  way  connected 
with  the  case,  when  suddenly  the  name  of 
Miss  Helena  Landless  occurred  to  me.  In- 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         59 

stantly  I  was  convinced  that  it  must  be  she. 
The  very  improbability  of  the  idea  fascinated 
me  from  the  start.  What  more  unlikely  than 
that  a  young  Ceylonese  girl  should  pass  her 
self  off  for  an  elderly  English  man,  sitting  in 
bars  and  drinking  elderly  English  drinks? 
The  improbable  is  usually  true,  I  remem 
bered.  Then  I  recalled  that  I  had  heard 
that  Miss  Landless,  as  a  child,  used  to  dress 
up  as  a  boy.  I  was  now  positive  about  the 
matter. 

I  was  on  hand  to  meet  Holmes  when  he 
returned  the  next  day.  He  had  two  men 
with  him  and  he  introduced  them  as  Mr. 
Tartar  and  Mr.  Neville  Landless.  I  looked 
with  interest  at  the  suspected  man,  and  then 
tried  to  have  speech  with  Holmes.  But  he 
drew  me  apart. 

"These  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "are  going  at 
once  to  Mr.  Crisparkle's.  They  will  remain 
there  until  tonight,  when  I  expect  to  have 


60  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

need  of  them.  You  and  I  will  return  to  your 
hotel." 

On  the  way  I  told  him  about  Mr.  Datch- 
ery,  and  my  suspicions  about  that  person. 
He  listened  eagerly,  and  said  that  he  must 
have  speech  with  Datchery  without  delay. 
When  I  told  him  of  my  belief  that  Datchery 
was  the  sister  of  Landless,  in  disguise,  Holmes 
clapped  me  on  the  back,  and  exclaimed: 

"Excellent,  Watson,  excellent!  Quite  in  your 
old  vein!" 

I  flushed  with  pride  at  this  high  praise 
from  the  great  detective.  He  left  me  at  the 
Crozier,  while  he  went  forth  to  find  Datchery, 
and  also,  he  said,  to  have  a  word  with  Mr. 
Jasper.  I  supposed  that  he  was  about  to 
warn  the  choir-master  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
watched. 

Holmes  returned  to  the  inn  in  capital 
spirits. 

"We  shall  have  our  work  cut  out  for  us, 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         61 

tonight,  Watson,"  said  he,  "and  perhaps 
we  will  have  another  look  at  the  gargoyles." 

During  dinner  he  would  talk  of  nothing 
except  bee-keeping.  He  conversed  on  this 
topic,  indeed,  until  long  after  we  had  finished 
our  meal,  and  while  we  sat  smoking  in  the 
bar.  About  eleven,  an  ancient  man,  called 
Durdles,  came  in,  looking  for  Mister  Holmes. 

"Mr.  Jarsper  he's  a-cominj  down  the  stair, 
sir,"  said  he. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Holmes,  "come,  Watson, 
we  must  make  haste.  This  may  be  a  serious 
business.  Now,  Durdles!" 

The  man  called  Durdles  led  us  rapidly, 
and  by  back  ways,  to  the  churchyard.  Here 
he  showed  us  where  we  could  stand,  hidden 
behind  a  wall,  and  overlooking  the  tombs  and 
gravestones.  I  could  not  imagine  the  object 
of  this  nocturnal  visit.  Holmes  gave  our 
guide  some  money,  and  he  made  off.  While 
I  stood  there,  looking  fearfully  about,  I 


62  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

thought  I  saw  the  figures  of  two  men  be 
hind  a  tomb,  at  some  little  distance.  I  whis 
pered  to  Holmes,  but  he  motioned  for  silence. 
"Hush!"  he  whispered,  "Look  there!" 
I  looked  where  he  indicated,  and  saw  an 
other  figure  enter  the  churchyard.  He  carried 
some  object,  which  I  soon  guessed  to  be  a 
lantern,  swathed  in  a  dark  wrapping.  He 
unfolded  a  part  of  this  wrapping,  when  he 
reached  one  of  the  tombs,  and  I  recognized 
by  the  light  the  dark  features  of  Mr.  Jasper. 
What  could  he  be  doing  here  at  this  hour? 
He  commenced  to  fumble  in  his  pockets, 
and  presently  produced  a  key  with  which  he 
approached  the  door  of  the  tomb.  Soon  it 
swung  open,  and  Mr.  Jasper  seemed  about 
to  step  inside.  But  he  paused  for  an  instant, 
and  then  fell  back,  with  a  fearful  scream  of 
terror.  Once,  twice,  did  that  awful  cry  ring 
through  the  silent  churchyard.  At  its  second 
repetition  a  man  stepped  from  the  tomb. 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         63 

Then  Jasper  turned,  and  ran  frantically 
toward  the  cathedral. 

The  two  men  whom  I  had  previously  no 
ticed  sprang  from  behind  a  monument  and 
pursued  him. 

"Quick!"  said  Holmes,  "after  him!" 

We  both  ran  in  the  same  direction  as  fast 
as  we  could.  Hindered  by  the  darkness  and 
by  our  unfamiliarity  with  the  ground,  however, 
we  made  poor  progress.  The  fleeing  choir 
master  and  his  two  strange  pursuers  had 
already  vanished  into  the  gloom  of  the  cathe 
dral.  When  at  last  we  entered  the  building 
the  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  far  above 
us  was  all  we  could  hear.  Then,  as  we  paused, 
for  an  instant  at  fault,  there  came  another 
dreadful  cry,  and  then  silence. 

Men  with  lights  burst  into  the  cathedral 
and  led  us  up  the  staircase  toward  the  tower. 
The  twisting  ascent  was  a  long  business,  and 
I  knew  from  Holmes's  face  that  he  dreaded 


64  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

what  we  might  find  at  the  top.  When  we 
reached  the  top  there  lay  the  choir-master, 
Jasper,  overpowered  and  bound  by  Mr. 
Tartar.  The  latter,  then,  had  been  one  of 
the  men  I  had  seen  behind  the  monument. 

"Where  is  Neville? "  said  Holmes  quickly. 

Tartar  shook  his  head  and  pointed  below. 

"This  man,"  said  he,  indicating  Jasper, 
"fought  with  him,  and  now  I  fear  he  really 
has  a  murder  to  answer  for." 

One  of  the  men  in  the  group  which  had 
followed  us  to  the  top  stepped  forward  and 
looked  down  toward  Jasper.  It  was  the  man 
whom  we  had  seen  step  out  of  the  tomb. 
I  started  when  I  saw  that  except  for  the  wig 
and  a  few  changes  in  his  costume  it  was  the 
same  man  who  had  called  himself  "Datchery." 

Jasper  gazed  up  at  him  and  his  face  was 
distorted  with  fear. 

"Ned!  Ned!"  he  cried,  and  hid  his  face  on 
the  stone  floor. 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         65 

"Yes,  yer  may  hide  yer  face,"  said  old 
Durdles,  trembling  with  rage,  "yer  thought 
yer  had  murdered  him, — murdered  Mr.  Edwin 
Drood,  yer  own  nephew.  Yer  hocussed  him 
with  liquor  fixed  with  pizen,  same's  yer  tried 
to  hocus  Durdles,  an'  tried  to  burn  him  up 
with  quicklime  in  the  tomb.  But  Durdles 
found  him,  Durdles  did." 

He  advanced  and  would  have  ground  the 
head  of  the  prostrate  choir-master  under  his 
heel,  if  some  men  had  not  held  him  back. 

"Of  course,"  said  Holmes  to  me  on  the 
train  back  to  London  next  morning,  "no 
one  in  Cloisterham  thought  of  suspecting  the 
eminently  respectable  Mr.  Jasper.  They 
started  with  the  presumption  of  his  innocence. 
He  was  a  possible  object  of  suspicion  to  me 
from  the  first.  This  was  because  he  was  one 
of  the  two  men  who  last  saw  Edwin  Drood. 
When  we  had  our  interview  with  him — Jasper, 


66  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

I  mean — I  recognized  him  as  the  frequenter 
of  a  disreputable  opium  den  near  the  docks. 
You  may  remember  that  I  have  had  oc 
casion  to  look  into  such  places  in  one  other 
little  problem  we  studied  together.  He  was, 
then,  leading  a  double  life.  That  was  as  far 
as  I  had  gone  when  I  returned  to  London  last 
night.  But  while  there  I  had  a  talk  with 
Mr.  Grewgious,  as  well  as  with  poor  young 
Landless  and  his  sister.  From  them  I  learned 
that  Jasper  was  in  love  with  his  nephew's 
betrothed,  and  had,  indeed,  been  persecuting 
her  with  his  attentions,  both  before  and  after 
Edwin's  disappearance.  From  Mr.  Grew- 
gious's  manner  I  became  convinced  that  he, 
at  any  rate,  viewed  Jasper  with  profound 
suspicion.  But  he  was  a  lawyer,  and  very 
cautious;  he  evidently  had  no  certain  proof. 
Other  hints  which  were  dropped  led  me  to 
suspect  that  he  was  not  mourning  the  death  of 
young  Drood. 


DICKENS'S     SECRET     BOOK         67 

"This  was  a  curious  thing — the  whole 
crux  to  the  mystery  lay  in  it.  I  sat  up  all 
night,  Watson,  and  consumed  about  four 
ounces  of  tobacco.  It  needed  some  thinking. 
Why,  if  Jasper  had  plotted  murder,  had  he 
failed  to  carry  it  out?  The  opium,  the 
opium,  Watson — you  know,  yourself,  that  a 
confirmed  opium-smoker  is  apt  to  fail,  is 
almost  sure  to  fail,  in  any  great  enterprise. 
He  tries  to  nerve  himself  before  the  deed, 
and  ten  to  one  he  merely  stupefies  himself, 
and  the  plot  miscarries.  This  morning  I 
saw  Mr.  Grewgious  again,  and  charged  him 
in  so  many  words  with  keeping  secret  the 
fact  that  Drood  was  alive.  He  admitted  it, 
and  told  me  that  Drood  was  hi  Cloisterham 
masquerading  as  Datchery." 

"But  why  should  he  do  that?"  I  asked, 
"why  did  he  let  Neville  rest  under  suspicion 
of  murder?" 

"Because  he  had  no  certain  proof  of  Jasper's 


68  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

guilt,"  said  Holmes,  aand  he  was  trying  to 
collect  evidence  against  him.  He  was  himself 
drugged  when  the  attempt  was  made  upon  his 
life,  he  was  rescued  on  that  occasion  by  Durdles, 
and  his  disappearance  was  connived  at  by 
Mr.  Grewgious.  The  lawyer  further  told  me 
of  the  ring  which  Edwin  Drood  carried  with 
him,  and  which  the  would-be  murderer  over 
looked  when  he  took  the  watch  and  pin. 
Then,  it  was  only  necessary  for  me  to  drop 
a  hint  to  Jasper  about  the  ring.  That  sent 
him  back  to  the  tomb,  into  which  he  supposed 
he  had  flung  Brood's  body  to  be  consumed  by 
quicklime.  There  he  found  the  living,  and 
not  the  dead  Edwin  Drood,  as  you  saw.  But 
the  opium  was  really  the  clew  to  the  whole 
thing — I  went  to  see  the  old  hag  who  keeps 
the  den  he  frequented,  and  learned  from  her 
that  he  babbled  endlessly  about  the  murder 
in  his  dreams.  He  had  arrived  at  a  point 
where  he  could  not  distinguish  between  the 


DICKENS'S    SECRET     BOOK         69 

real  attempt  at  murder  and  a  vision.  He 
acted  as  in  a  vision  when  he  tried  to  commit 
the  deed,  and  so  it  failed. 

"As  for  your  theory  about  Miss  Landless 
being  Datchery — well,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am 
glad  for  the  sake  of  that  proper,  clerical 
gentleman,  Mr.  Crisparkle,  that  his  intended 
wife  has  not  been  masquerading  in  trousers 
at  the  Cloisterham  inns.  Poor  Landless — I 
shall  never  forgive  myself  for  his  death.  His 
murderer  will  meet  the  fate  he  richly  deserves, 
without  a  doubt. 

"And  now,  Watson,  we  were  discussing 
bees.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  planting 
buckwheat  near  the  hives?  I  am  told  that 
they  do  wonderfully  on  buckwheat." 


CHAPTER  IV 
ON  PIRATES 

Most  of  us  had  listened  to  Bronson's  paper 
with  some  interest.  Toward  the  end,  even 
the  piquet  players  stopped  their  game  to  listen. 
When  it  was  finished,  Lenox  said: 

"Well,  I've  never  read  ' Edwin  Drood,' 
but  I  must  say  that  you've  made  a  pretty 
fair  imitation  of  a  Sherlock  Holmes  story." 

"Yes,"  Sayles  agreed,  "you  got  the  machin 
ery  of  Sherlock  and  Watson  all  right,  anyhow. 
Is  that  really  your  theory  of  the  outcome  of 
the  novel?" 

Bronson  smiled. 

"It's  the  one  I  believe  in, — sometimes.  It 
was  Richard  A.  Proctor's  theory,  of  course. 

He  believed  that  Drood  was  not  really  killed, 

70 


ON     PIRATES  71 

and  that  he  returned  in  disguise  as  Datchery 
to  watch  his  uncle.  Andrew  Lang  held  the 
same  opinion,  and  so  have  some  of  the  other 
critics.  On  the  opposing  side  you  have  Mr. 
Cuming  Walters  and  Sir  Robertson  Nicoll. 
They  are  sure  that  Edwin  Drood  was  mur 
dered,  and  that  Datchery  was  Helena  Land 
less." 

"The  Helena  Landless  theory  evidently 
doesn't  appeal  to  you, — since  you  put  it  into 
the  mouth  of  Watson, — the  good  old  donkey!" 

"No,  it  doesn't.  It  fascinates  those  who 
get  the  bee  in  their  bonnet,  however." 

"I  was  glad  to  see  one  thing,"  said  Sayles, 
"and  that  was  that  you  had  Holmes  wallop 
that  obnoxious  boy, — Deputy,  I  think  he's 
called?  I  hated  him  .  .  .  But  I  don't  think 
I  agree  with  you  that  Drood  survived.  I've 
read  some  of  the  comments  on  the  book, — 
.read  them  at  the  time  of  that  mock  trial  in 
London,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  evidence 


72  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

is  too  strong  that  Dickens  meant  the  murder 
to  succeed.  He  told  so  many  people  that 
Drood  was  dead.  Proctor  and  Lang  held,  I 
believe,  that  it  would  make  a  better  story  to 
have  Edwin  turn  up  alive  at  the  end." 

"That's  where  they  were  wrong,"  observed 
Crerar,  the  short-story  writer.  "Undoubtedly 
Dickens  intended  his  readers  to  puzzle  over 
the  question  if  Edwin  was  really  dead,  but 
it's  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  it  wouldn't 
have  been  a  perfectly  good  tale  of  mystery 
with  Edwin  safely  murdered.  Anyone  less 
an  artist  than  Dickens — all  apologies  to  you, 
Bronson — might  have  needed  that  climax  of 
the  unmasking  of  Datchery  and  the  return  of 
the  missing  Edwin.  But  Dickens  would  have 
managed  well  enough  without  it." 

"That  was  a  corking  good  idea  to  send 
Sherlock  Holmes  after  the  criminal,"  said 
Tilden;  "did  you  invent  that,  Bronson?" 

"Not  altogether,  I'm  afraid,"  replied  Bron- 


ON     PIRATES  73 

son,  filling  his  pipe.  "Andrew  Lang  did 
something  like  that  in  a  magazine, — Longman's 
I  think.  But  he  just  had  Watson  and  Sher 
lock  talk  it  over  in  their  rooms, — they  didn't 
go  out  on  the  trail." 

"What's  the  use  of  it  all?"  broke  in  Forbes, 
from  his  corner,  where  he  had  been  reading 
the  "Deutsche  Rundschau"  all  the  evening. 
"What  good  is  it,  anyway?  Dickens  is  dead; 
no  one  knows  how  he  would  have  finished 
the  story;  he  might  have  done  it  anyway 
he  wanted;  what's  the  use  gassing  about 
it?" 

This  nice,  thick,  wet  blanket  stifled  the 
conversation  effectively.  There  was  a  pause 
for  half  a  minute.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
Sayles,  who  was  fooling  with  a  chafing  dish, 
upset  some  blazing  alcohol,  and  created  a 
diversion.  When  it  had  been  put  out,  the  beer 
was  brought  in,  and  Sayles  announced  that 
the  Welsh  Rabbit  was  ripe.  (Yes,  Rabbit, 


74  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

not  Rarebit, — some  of  the  dictionaries,  and 
most  of  the  cook-books  to  the  contrary, 
notwithstanding.) 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Rabbit  had  gone  the 
way  of  his  forefathers,  and  streams  of  blue 
smoke  began  to  rise  from  pipes  and  cigars. 
Lenox,  who  had  spent  a  couple  of  months  in 
Arizona,  and  had  been  cursed,  ever  since, 
with  the  idea  that  he  could  roll  his  own 
cigarettes,  commenced  the  painful  operation. 
With  a  sheaf  of  cigarette  papers  and  a  little 
sack  of  tobacco  he  entered  upon  a  series  of 
gyrations  in  which  both  his  hands,  and  even 
his  teeth  were  employed.  After  several 
anxious  moments  he  produced  an  amorphous 
object,  one  end  of  which  he  put  between  his 
lips.  He  lighted  it,  and  took  three  puffs. 
At  the  third  it  burst,  scattering  his  clothes 
with  sparks  and  grains  of  tobacco.  He  ex 
tinguished  the  conflagration,  and  brushed  up 


ON     PIRATES  75 

the  wreck.  Then,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  he  took 
out  his  pipe.  He  was  always  cheery,  always 
hopeful,  during  this  performance.  I  had 
watched  him  at  it  for  over  two  years. 

"In  spite  of  old  Groucho,  here,"  said  Crerar, 
pointing  to  Forbes,  "there  is  a  fascination  in 
unfinished  books,  in  lost  and  half-forgotten 
books, — and  in  secret  books,  generally,"  he 
added,  with  a  smile. 

"I  wish,"  said  Newberry,  "I  could  see  again 
a  book  I  used  to  get  from  the  Sunday  School 
library,  at  home.  I  suppose  that  I  used  to 
read  it  three  times  a  year,  from  the  time  I 
was,  say,  eight,  till  I  was  fourteen.  It  was 
called  ' Perseverance  Island.'" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Ryerson,  "ah! — and  I 
might  even  go  so  far  as  to  add:  aha!  Here 
is  where  I  come  in.  That  is  the  very  book 
I  was  going  to  mention  next  in  my  paper. 
Shall  I  read  it?" 

And  he  began  to  polish  his  eye-glasses. 


76  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"Yes,  do  read  it,"  said  someone,  "and  get 
it  over  with." 

Ryerson  sat  down  under  a  lamp. 

"I  was  moved  to  these  reflections  the  other 
day,  after  four  or  five  hours  of  research  work. 
I  was  pondering  upon  happier  days,  when 
libraries  did  not  mean  slavery  to  me." 

Ryerson  is  a  genealogical  scout, — he  finds 
ancestors,  and  digs  up  family  trees  for  those 
who  are  rich  enough,  or  foolish  enough,  to 
want  them. 

ON  PIRATES 

There  was  a  book  called  "Perseverance 
Island,"  written  by  a  man  with  an  honest 
Scotch  name — Donald  or  Douglas  Fraser, 
or  something  like  that.  It  was  a  good  book 
• — I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  it,  and  I  read 
it  many  times.  But  it  often  turns  up  now 
adays,  in  lists  of  reading  for  children,  and  I 
smile  when  I  see  it  recommended  as  likely 


ON  PIRATES  77 

"to  teach  manly  self-reliance  and  the  art  of 
doing  things  for  yourself. "  The  hero  had  that 
art  all  right.  Cast  on  an  uninhabited  island, 
he  not  only  solved  all  the  ordinary  problems 
of  food,  clothing,  and  shelter,  but  proceeded 
to  heights  of  inventive  genius  far  beyond 
anything  yet  achieved  by  men  in  the  centres 
of  civilization — with  all  appliances  and  means 
to  boot.  Discovering  gold  mines  was  a  mere 
bagatelle  to  him,  while  such  trifles  as  sub 
marine  boats  and  flying  machines  were  tossed 
off  casually  in  his  idle  moments.  You  won 
dered  how  such  a  wizard  had  remained  un 
known  at  home — why  he  had  never  risen 
above  the  position  of  first  mate  on  a  sailing 
vessel.  The  haunts  of  men  seemed  to  have 
cramped  him;  he  needed  a  desert  island  to 
bring  him  out. 

I  read  the  book  more  than  once,  and 
how  much  manly  self-reliance  it  taught  me 
I  cannot  say.  It  certainly  led  to  no  submarine 


78  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

boats  nor  gold  mines.  I  can  only  remember 
one  definite  result  and  that  was  very  likely 
unintended  by  the  author.  There  was  a 
fascinating  chapter  or  two  about  pirates — not 
live  pirates,  but  pirates  long  dead,  who  had 
once  infested  the  island.  One  of  them  had 
left  his  skeleton  behind  him,  and  the  hero 
stumbled  over  it  one  day,  while  out  for  a 
ramble.  The  pirate  had  left  a  manuscript 
(on  parchment,  of  course)  as  well  as  his 
bones,  and  this  manuscript  told  where  the 
treasure  ship  had  sunk.  Bearings  of  the  spot 
were  given  by  means  of  a  deep  groove  cut  in 
the  window  sill  by  the  dying  buccaneer.  This 
impressed  me  not  a  little,  and  I  must  have  con 
ceived  the  notion  that  there  was  an  insepa 
rable  connection  between  grooves  in  window 
sills  and  sunken  treasure,  for  I  presently 
carved  a  deep  gash  in  the  frame  of  my  bed 
room  window.  All  efforts  to  uncover  any 
piratical  loot  by  means  of  this  mark  proved 


ON     PIRATES  79 

of  no  avail,  and  it  was  perhaps  a  hopeless 
attempt  from  the  first,  since  the  window 
looked  out  upon  the  grounds  of  the  Second 
Presbyterian  Church.  There  were  conse 
quences  to  the  cutting  of  the  groove,  however — 
consequences  far  too  terrible  to  recall.  I  had 
again  to  realize  that  sympathy  with  pirates 
and  their  methods  was  long  dead,  and  that 
romance  had  vanished  out  of  the  world,  save 
as  it  dwelt  between  the  covers  of  books  in 
libraries. 

Pirates!  What  a  blessed  word  it  is,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it.  How  few  were  their 
victims  and  how  brief  the  sufferings  they 
inflicted,  compared  with  the  numbers  of  their 
beneficiaries,  and  the  amount  of  joy  which 
the  latter  have  received.  For  authors  and 
readers  have  been  unearthing  pirate  gold  for 
two  centuries  and  are  like  to  do  it  till  there 
is  no  more  making  of  books.  How  many 
times  was  I  transported  from  the  dim  alcoves 


8o  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

of  that  library  to  some  heaving  quarter-deck 
(which  is  the  quarter-deck,  anyhow?)  where 
I  nervously  paced,  glancing  back  from  time 
to  time  through  my  glass  toward  a  low, 
rakish,  black  craft  which  was  rapidly  over 
hauling  us.  And  I  knew  that  soon  it  would 
be  alongside,  the  grappling  irons  would  be 
attached,  and  the  villainous  looking  crew 
swarming  over  our  bulwarks.  But  I  knew 
that  when  the  last  throat  was  slit,  the  last 
passenger  gone  overboard  via  the  famous 
plank  route,  the  last  raucous  cry  of  "Heave 
Jem  to  the  sharks!"  had  died  away — why, 
then  I  should  be  back  again  in  the  library, 
safe  and  sound. 

Nowadays  I  am  all  for  law  and  order; 
I  do  not  want  to  see  wickedness  prosper.  I 
hope  to  see  all  embezzlers  and  swindlers  and 
people  who  violate  the  Sherman  Anti-Trust 
Act  (or  do  not  violate  it — whichever  it  is 
that  is  culpable)  put  away  behind  prison 


ON     PIRATES  8l 

walls,  where  they  belong.  But  the  severest 
indictment  which  can  be  brought  against  all 
this  modern  sin,  which  is  so  mean  and  sordid, 
is  that  it  is  also  devoid  of  any  artistic  merit 
or  romantic  interest.  How  can  you  get  up 
admiration  for  a  couple  of  men  who  come 
together  in  an  office  somewhere  and  agree  to 
commit  violence  upon  the  Sherman  Anti- 
Trust  Act?  On  second  thoughts,  I  wouldn't 
even  dignify  such  persons  by  putting  them  in 
jail.  They  ought  to  be  consigned  to  a  poor- 
house — an  institution  for  paupers  of  imagina 
tion,  persons  impoverished  in  intellect.  If 
they  would  meet  in  a  cave,  by  the  dark  of 
the  moon,  take  a  terrible  oath  on  a  couple 
of  crossed  and  bloody  daggers,  and  then  sally 
forth  to  do  things  to  the  Anti-Trust  Act, 
you  might  have  some  respect  for  them.  Or  if 
they  would  even  put  on  a  red  sash,  and  nerve 
themselves  for  the  deed  by  drinking  a  couple 
of  pannikins  of  rum  and  gunpowder  (like  one 


82  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

of  my  favorite  heroes)  I  would  still  admit 
them  to  my  list  of  acquaintances.  But 
wickedness  conducted  by  telephone  and  sin 
carried  on  by  parcels  post — pah!  What  do 
we  want  with  this — we  who  have  known  men 
who  could  gallop  over  Hounslow  Heath  with 
a  brace  of  pistols  and  hold  up  a  king's  mes 
senger,  or  the  very  Duke  of  York  himself! 
Or  men  who  scoured  the  Spanish  Main  till 
there  was  scarcely  a  doubloon  which  dared 
show  its  head  from  St.  Kitts  to  the  Dry 
Tortugas. 

There  was  an  alcove  in  that  library  de 
voted  to  books  about  Africa.  Other  conti 
nents  may  have  been  represented — I  do  not 
know — I  speak  of  Africa  and  golden  joys. 
A  placard  bore  some  cabalistic  letters — AG  or 
QR,  or  something  else  in  a  forgotten  scheme 
of  classification  which  librarians  would  regard 
with  mirth  today.  Inside  were  the  books, 


ON     PIRATES  83 

a  great  deal  of  dust,  and  a  small,  wooden 
footstool.  Here  were  all  I  required,  and 
soon  I  was  made  free  of  the  place,  for  the 
librarian  found  that  it  was  less  trouble  to 
let  me  do  as  I  liked  than  to  try  to  keep  up 
the  hedges.  Those  bookshelves  and  that  foot 
stool  were  as  good  as  a  caravan  of  camels — 
they  led  straight  to  the  oases  of  the  Sahara 
and  the  reedy  swamps  about  Lake  Tangan 
yika.  In  no  time  at  all  I  knew  the  exact 
difference  between  the  Fourth  and  Fifth 
Cataracts  of  the  Nile — and  though  I  have 
forgotten  it  since,  I  was  fully  aware  of  the 
best  way  to  get  into  the  good  graces  of  the 
Hottentots,  the  Pygmies,  and  the  Zulus. 

It  is  terrible  to  think,  but  if  I  were  cast 
amongst  any  of  those  people  now,  my  situa 
tion  might  be  very  embarrassing — all  be 
cause  I  have  not  kept  up  my  earlier  studies. 

A  dozen  dusty  bookshelves — such  simple 
apparatus  as  that  led  direct  to  the  gloomy 


84  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

jungle,  where  my  "bearers"  were  constantly 
slipping  into  the  interstices  between  the 
enormous  tree-roots  (you  know  the  ways  of 
the  banyan,  I  am  sure — or  is  it  the  upas?) 
and  disappearing  into  the  miasmatic  swamp 
beneath.  Or  else  they  were  getting  snatched 
up  bodily  into  the  branches  by  the  gigantic 
pythons  who  lurked  overhead  and  did  all 
they  could  to  make  the  place  one  of  shudder 
ing  horror,  blood-chilling  but  delicious.  On  a 
rainy  Saturday  afternoon,  when  I  could  get 
to  the  library  early,  I  have  been  known  to 
lose  as  many  as  five  bearers  by  means  of  these 
pythons,  between  two  and  half  past  four 
o'clock. 

Peevish  old  gentlemen,  who  sometimes  came 
poking  into  the  alcove,  seemed  unaware  of 
its  enchantment.  They  grumbled  a  little 
about  the  arrangement  of  the  books,  cast  a 
suspicious  eye  at  me,  and  went  out.  They 
never  knew  that  it  was  a  region  of  simooms, 


ON     PIRATES  85 

of  strange  and  terrible  storms  that  would  bury 
you  in  sand  unless  you  knew  (as  I  did)  pre 
cisely  how  to  behave  in  the  face  of  these 
dangers.  They  were  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
a  cloud  of  hostile  Bedouins  were  hovering  on 
the  edge  of  the  desert,  less  than  five  miles 
away,  and  that  what  they  saw  out  the  window 
and  took  to  be  the  wood-shed,  back  of  Mr. 
Dodge's  house,  was  really  a  deceptive  mirage, 
representing  an  oasis,  three  palm  trees  and  a 
troop  of  camels.  How  should  they  discover 
that  there  was  a  route — had  they  but  the 
eyes  to  see  it — right  up  to  the  secret  places 
of  Ophir — yes,  even  to  the  Mountains  of  the 
Moon! 

And  the  animals — well,  the  animals  fairly 
swarmed  in  that  narrow  space.  It  was  wonder 
ful  how  they  could  get  in.  I  can  hear  them 
still — the  elephants  trumpeting,  the  lions 
roaring,  the  jackals  snarling,  the  hippopota 
muses  grunting — or  doing  whatever  it  is  that 


86  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

hippopotamuses  do.  And  more  than  those, — 
beasts  with  curious  names,  gemsboks,  wilde- 
beestes,  hartebeestes,  gnus,  and  the  nilghai — 
I  can  only  let  in  one  of  him,  for  I  really  do 
not  know  his  plural.  The  nilghai  will  have  to 
remain  in  celibacy. 

As  I  look  back  upon  this  menagerie  I  can 
see  outlandish  creatures — tapirs,  kangaroos, 
cassowaries,  narwhals,  tigers,  wombats,  tou 
cans,  dugongs,  and  what  not.  Surely  these 
are  out  of  place  in  the  African  jungle!  I  can 
only  account  for  their  presence  by  supposing 
that  they  boiled  over,  as  it  were,  from  neigh 
boring  alcoves.  The  classification  in  libraries 
was  a  more  haphazard  thing  in  those  high  and 
far-off  times.  It  was  no  impossible  thing 
for  you  to  meet  a  polar  bear  on  an  ice-cake, 
floating  serenely  across  Lake  Victoria  Nyanza, 
while  a  flock  of  sulphur-crested  cockatoos 
might  at  any  moment  perch  on  the  top  of 
your  snow-hut,  on  the  shores  of  Baffin's  Bay. 


ON     PIRATES  87 

Of  course  you  had  to  keep  your  head,  with 
all  these  animals  about.  Otherwise  you 
might  find  a  lion  nibbling  your  right  arm,  as 
once  happened  to  Livingstone.  Or  you  would 
get  in  a  tight  place,  with  three  gorillas  ad 
vancing  upon  you  at  once,  beating  their 
chests  until  the  sound  reverberated  horribly 
throughout  the  forests.  (Paul  du  Chaillu,  I 
think.)  But  if  you  kept  out  of  the  long, 
thick  jungle-grass  when  there  were  rhinoc 
eroses  around,  and  remembered  not  to  try 
to  run  from  an  ostrich  but  to  lie  passive  on  the 
sand,  then  you  would  get  home  to  supper  at 
six  o'clock  all  right.  For  so  long  as  you  deal 
with  your  rhinoceros  in  the  open  he  can 
never  get  a  chance  to  impale  you  on  his 
horn;  while  if  you  lie  down  before  the  on 
coming  ostrich,  instead  of  trying  to  beat  him 
in  a  foot-race,  he  will  merely  sit  on  you  for  two 
or  three  hours  and  then  go  away.  This  is  a 
little  humiliating  and  rather  stifling,  and  you 


88  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

must  restrain  your  natural  desire  to  tweak 
out  any  of  those  long  feathers — but  it  is 
better  than  being  kicked  to  pieces. 

The  African  section  was  not  the  whole  of 
the  library.  It  had  many  other  attractions — 
indeed,  it  was  a  fortunate  building  through 
out.  Really  to  enjoy  books,  to  be  familiar 
and  not  afraid  in  their  presence,  we  are  told, 
a  boy  must  tumble  about  in  his  father's 
library  from  an  early  age.  But  inasmuch  as 
to  tumble  about  in  my  father's  library,  or  in 
that  of  the  father  of  any  boy  whom  I  knew, 
would  have  meant  to  roll  around  on  the 
narrow  shelves  of  a  single  bookcase — why, 
the  public  library  was  a  lucky  possession  for 
us.  We  hear  much  of  these  private  libraries — 
in  books,  that  is,  but  how  many  of  them  have 
any  of  us  seen?  You,  who  hear  this,  how 
many  of  your  friends  own  a  whole  thousand 
volumes?  Can  you  not  count  them  on  the 


ON     PIRATES  89 

fingers  of  one  hand?  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  I  am  not  addressing  any  members  of 
the  criminally  rich  class,  though  even  they, 
we  hear,  are  becoming  diffident  about  the 
possession  of  any  volumes  at  all,  and  are 
building  "bookless"  libraries. 

To  be  quite  respectable,  in  our  town,  you 
had  a  black  walnut  bookcase  in  the  parlor, 
and  it  sheltered  perhaps  a  couple  of  hundred 
books.  But  these,  like  as  not,  were  the  gifts 
which  friends  had  inflicted  on  members  of  the 
family,  or  subscription  volumes,  bought  to 
help  out  some  worthy  person.  It  was  very 
kind  of  your  father  to  assist  Miss  Lightbody 
to  the  extent  of  purchasing  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Digger's  "Explorations  in  the  Holy  Land" 
($2.50  in  boards,  or  $4  full  morocco),  or  the 
"Life  of  Adoniram  Judson"  (quarto,  Family 
Edition,  $6),  but  the  usefulness  of  the  act 
ended  with  Miss  Lightbody.  Its  benefit  on 
one  human  boy,  aged,  say,  about  ten  years, 


90  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

was  impossible  to  discover.  Of  a  certainty 
that  boy  got  his  full  share  of  books  of  a  more 
interesting  type  at  Christmas,  but  as  these 
were  invariably  devoured  from  cover  to  cover, 
not  later  than  the  evening  of  Dec.  28th,  of 
the  same  year,  and  as  there  had  not  been 
enough  Christmases  in  his  experience  for  him 
to  accumulate  a  vast  number  of  books,  there 
were  still  reasons  why  he  had  to  draw  upon 
the  common  collection  of  the  town.  Some  of 
his  own  private  stock,  moreover,  had  been 
given  him  five  or  six  years  earlier,  and  he  now 
turned  from  them  in  loathing.  They  were 
distressingly  juvenile.  Some  of  them  were 
the  "Pansy"  books — I  forget  exactly  what 
that  implies,  but  I  can  recall  the  scornful 
tone  in  which  the  title  came  to  be  pronounced. 

So  we  all  went  to  the  public  library.  And 
in  that  we  were  happy — happier  than  we 
knew.  It  makes  me  pity  the  boys  to  whom 


ON     PIRATES  91 

the  word  means  a  cold,  white  building, 
shining  inside  with  brass  railings  and  turn 
stiles,  equipped  with  the  last  word  in  a  correct 
"juvenile"  department,  presided  over  by  those 
whose  sweetly  scientific  ministrations  are 
efficient  but  irksome.  This  was  an  old  and 
dignified  structure,  shaded  by  trees,  and  even 
possessing  a  bit  of  well-kept  lawn.  Ivy 
covered  the  bricks  and  almost  came  in  at  the 
windows.  Here — though  I  may  be  mistaken 
in  thinking  that  it  had  any  effect  on  us — 
once  lived  the  proprietor  of  many  acres,  the 
possessor  of  servants  and  horses,  the  owner  of 
plate  and  cellars  of  wine,  and  of  ships  that 
sailed  the  seas.  Here,  in  the  room  where 
ponderous  volumes  now  cover  the  tables, 
he  had  his  captains  to  dinner,  and  they  sam 
pled  the  Madeira  and  sherry  which  these  cap 
tains  had  fetched  home  with  them,  and 
drank  success  to  privateering  voyages.  Prob 
ably  they  got  very  merry  over  it  all,  in  the 


92  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

regular  Pepysian  fashion — I  hope  they  did, 
at  any  rate.  It  helps  make  the  encyclopaedias 
less  dry  to  believe  it. 

And  here,  on  one  great  occasion,  the  master 
of  all  this,  with  his  wig  well  powdered,  and  his 
calves  silk-stockinged,  and  his  buckles  shining 
to  the  last  degree,  stood  at  the  main  entrance 
to  welcome  the  President,  who  happened  also 
to  be  George  Washington.  And  there  must 
have  been  much  excitement  among  the  serv 
ants,  and  there  was  a  great  to-do  outside,  and 
there  were  "fireworks  and  rockets"  (as  the 
President  observed  in  his  diary)  and  militia 
companies  which  paraded,  and  ambitious 
young  gentlemen  who  presented  addresses. 
Finally  the  rockets  ceased  and  the  militia 
companies  went  home  (in  irregular  formation, 
it  may  be  fancied)  and  they  politely  requested 
the  President  to  go  to  bed,  in  order  to  please 
the  historical  societies  of  the  future,  and  he 
agreed  to  do  so.  Then  they  picked  out  a  room 


ON     PIRATES  93 

which  would  be  convenient  to  point  out  to 
sight-seers,  and  the  President  did  go  to  bed 
there,  and  the  head  which  we  see  on  the 
postage  stamps  was  laid  to  rest  on  a  pillow, 
and  the  head  wore  a  night-cap,  I  fear,  after 
the  manner  of  that  period. 

I  was  much  upon  blue  water  in  those  days. 
The  real  blue  water  has  a  tendency  to  make 
me  sea-sick,  but  put  me  in  a  library,  and  a 
sailor's  life  was  the  life  for  me,  yo-ho,  yo-ho, 
yo-ho.  Nor  was  the  smell  of  powder  long 
absent  from  my  nostrils,  for  I  spent  most  of 
my  time  assisting  in  the  capture  of  English 
frigates.  I  knew  the  thrill  of  the  moment 
when  the  enemy's  top-sails  were  sighted,  and 
the  suspense  lest  she  might  prove  to  be  a 
seventy-four.  (We  never  carried  over  thirty- 
eight  guns — or  forty-four  at  the  most,  so  you 
can  see  that  a  seventy-four  would  have  been 
very  embarrassing.)  Then  there  was  the  long 


94  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

chase.  I  knew  exactly  when  to  yaw  and  let 
fly  a  couple  of  bow-chasers.  I  say  that  I 
knew  when  to  do  it,  and  that  is  true  (it  is 
about  one  page  and  a  half  after  you  have 
first  sighted  your  enemy)  but  what  it  is  to 
"yaw"  and  how  you  do  it,  are  things  that 
stump  me  even  to  this  moment.  It  is  a  good 
satisfying  word  and  that  is  all  I  need  to  know. 
If  ever  in  actual  life  I  need  to  make  a  frigate 
yaw,  preparatory  to  letting  fly  a  couple  of 
bow-chasers,  doubtless  there  will  be  someone 
around  who  can  tell  me  the  way  to  go  about 
it. 

Before  long  you  are  hotly  engaged.  You 
have  set  an  ensign  at  each  masthead,  and 
by  clever  seamanship  come  up  on  her  weather 
quarter.  The  firing  is  hot,  the  sweet  smell  of 
the  powder  smoke  is  in  your  nostrils.  They 
are  fighting  bravely,  but  they  have  something 
to  learn  about  gunnery.  They  fire  when  their 
ship  is  on  the  crest  of  the  wave  so  that  their 


ON     PIRATES  95 

shots  pass  harmless  through  your  rigging. 
But  your  men  wait  until  you  are  in  the  trough, 
and  hull  her  every  time.  In  seven  minutes 
by  your  watch  down  comes  her  main-mast, 
and  you  forge  slowly  ahead.  You  prepare 
to  cross  her  bows,  and  rake  her  from  stem 
to  stern.  But  she  has  had  enough,  and  her 
flag  is  lowered  in  token  of  surrender.  You 
send  a  boat  and  learn  that  she  is  His  Britannic 
Majesty's  ship  "Macedonian."  Her  captain 
comes  aboard, — wounded,  poor  fellow,  and 
offers  his  sword,  which  you  magnanimously 
refuse  to  accept.  "I  could  not  think,  sir, 
of  depriving  you  of  a  weapon  which  you  have 
wielded  so  gallantly  today!"  Or  is  this  better: 
"Keep  your  sword,  captain,  since  you  have 
used  it  so  well,  no  man  has  a  better  claim 
to  it  than  yourself."  You  practise  these; — to 
see  which  one  you  like  best,  while  he  is  coming 
in  the  boat.  Then  after  the  ceremony  is 
over,  you  invite  him  to  dinner  with  you  in 


96  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

the  cabin,  while  a  prize-crew  is  put  aboard 
the  captured  vessel.  They  find  on  her  some 
Yankee  prisoners — the  officers  and  men  of 
the  privateer  "Mary  Ann,"  who  are  naturally 
pleased  to  be  released. 

Dear  me,  dear  me — it  seems  as  if  I  could 
have  managed  that  sea-fight  pretty  well — all 
but  the  yawing.  I  should  have  especially 
enjoyed  that  scene  with  the  British  captain. 
And  here  I  am  in  a  stuffy  old  library — and 
the  North  Atlantic  breezes  have  all  died  away. 
They  blew  so  merrily  but  a  moment  ago — the 
yards  creaked,  and  the  bos'n's  whistle  piped. 
And  now  here  comes  the  janitor  to  tell  me 
the  library  is  closing  and  I  must  go  home. 
I  have  a  mind  to  order  him  in  irons,  and  put 
him  in  the  brig  for  ten  days,  on  bread  and 
water. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  NUMBER  OF  THINGS 

On  an  evening  in  the  following  week  the 
Club  met  in  Newberry's  flat.  Only  four  or 
five  of  us  were  there, — Lenox  and  Tilden  had 
gone  to  a  hockey  game,  while  Forbes  was 
attending  a  first  night  of  the  latest  disease- 
drama— "The  Children's  Teeth." 

Ryerson  began  to  accuse  Newberry  of  acute 
anglomania, — on  account  of  a  London  "Times" 
which  was  lying  on  the  table. 

"I  read  the  ' Times/"  said  Newberry, 
"for  two  things:  detective  stories  and  humor." 

"Humor?  Ever  try  the  City  Directory, 
— some  rippin'  things  in  that!"  remarked 
Bronson,  mimicking  Newberry's  pronunciation. 

"Yes,  humor.     And  detective  stories, — the 

97 


98  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

reports  of  robberies  and  murder  trials.  Did 
you  follow  the  theft  of  the  pearl  necklace  in 
the  'Times'?  Twas  a  great  sight  more 
exciting  than  anything  our  yellow  journals 
can  do, — they  give  everything  away,  in  their 
big,  shrieking  headlines.  There's  something 
about  the  sober,  matter-of-fact,  third-person, 
British  journalese  that  makes  the  reports  of 
trials  all  the  more  thrilling.  Witness:  the 
case  of  that  English  army  officer  tried  for 
murder  in  India  last  summer.  And  then, — 
do  you  ever  follow  the  Cuckoo  Controversy?" 

"The— what?" 

"The  annual  Cuckoo  Controversy.  It  is 
one  of  the  chief  sporting  events  of  Great 
Britain.  It  is  as  old  as  the  Oxford- Cambridge 
boat  race,  if  not  older.  As  long  ago  as  when 
Hichens  wrote  'The  Green  Carnation'  he 
made  one  of  his  characters  remark  that  the 
season  was  approaching  when  elderly  gentle 
men  think  they  have  heard  the  cuckoo  sing- 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS  99 

ing  near  Esher, — and  write  to  the  ' Times' 
about  it." 

"What/sit  all  about?" 

"The  point  to  be  settled  is:  who  is  the  first 
person  in  the  British  Isles  to  hear  or  see  a 
cuckoo  in  the  spring.  The  '  Times' — and  a 
number  of  other  papers — devote  columns  to  it, 
every  year.  It's  a  better  game  than  golf; 
there's  no  age  limit.  Ladies  and  gentlemen 
in  bath-chairs  rush  into  the  contest.  Here's 
something  I've  written  about  it  for  the  'Ga 
zette,'  if  you  care  to  hear  it.  It's  all  genuine, — 
the  copies  of  the  l  Times'  I  took  these  letters 
from  are  all  here,  if  you  wish  to  verify  it." 

Newberry  is  a  special  writer  on  the  "Ga 
zette."  We  told  him  to  go  ahead.  He  snapped 
on  an  electric  drop-light,  and  read  his  article. 

"LOUD  SINGS  CUCKOO!" 

Like  us,  they  have  been  having  a  mild 
winter  in  England,  and  their  spring  is  coming 


100  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

much  faster  than  ours.  The  annual  Cuckoo 
.  Controversy  has  been  raging  for  a  number  of 
weeks.  Mr.  R.  Lydekker  drew  first  blood. 
He  heard  the  cuckoo  as  early  as  February  4th 
and  he  let  the  "Times"  know  about  it  the 
same  day.  He  was  gardening,  it  seems,  at 
Harpenden  Lodge,  Herts,  when  he  heard  a 
faint  note  which  led  him  to  say  to  his  under- 
gardener, — "Was  that  the  cuckoo?"  (Note 
that  it  was  only  the  under-gardener.  The 
presence  of  the  head-gardener  might  have 
added  an  air  of  greater  authority  to  the  oc 
casion,  but  the  gentleman  is  careful  in  his 
statements.  He  is  the  first  cuckoo-hearer  of 
the  season,  and  can  afford  to  take  his  triumph 
sedately, — as  Tennyson's  Maud  took  her 
lover's  kiss.) 

Almost  immediately  afterwards,  both  Mr. 
Lydekker  and  his  under-gardener  heard  the 
full  double  note  of  the  cuckoo, — repeated 
either  two  or  three  times.  They  were  not 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          101 

sure  which.  The  time  was  3.40  and  the 
bird  seemed  to  be  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  "There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt," 
says  Mr.  Lydekker,  "that  the  song  was 
that  of  a  cuckoo." 

The  "Times's"  cuckoo-editor  is  sceptical, — 
calm,  but  sceptical.  He  merely  quotes  Yar- 
rell's  "British  Birds"  to  the  effect  that  all 
cuckoos  prior  to  March  must  be  treated  with 
suspicion  if  not  incredulity.  And  Harting's 
"Handbook,"  he  reminds  the  happy  pro 
prietor  of  Harpenden  Lodge,  says  there  is 
no  authentic  record  of  the  arrival  of  the  cuckoo 
earlier  than  April  6. 

But  it  is  too  late;  the  fat  is  in  the  fire, 
and  from  all  parts  of  the  King's  domains  the 
cuckoo  specialists  come  flocking.  The  expert 
on  the  "Times"  regretfully  realizes  that 
his  long  winter's  nap  is  at  an  end;  he  must 
sharpen  his  quill  and  get  ready  for  the  busy 
season. 


102  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

The  first  is  Mr.  Richard  Edgecumbe  of 
Edgbarrow,  Crowthorne.  He  turns  over  some 
old  family  papers,  and  discovers  a  letter 
written  in  1834  by  the  Duke  of  Rutland.  The 
Duke  does  not  mention  the  cuckoo  of  1834 
directly,  but  he  muses  (in  a  letter  to  Frances, 
Lady  Shelley)  on  the  mildness  of  that  winter. 
On  February  ist,  he  writes,  "we  trod  upon  a 
carpet  of  primroses."  Mr.  Edgecumbe  leaves 
the  readers  of  the  "Times"  to  understand  that 
the  Duke  moved,  so  to  speak,  in  the  midst 
of  a  perfect  swarm  of  cuckoos.  Mr.  H.  Myer, 
writing  from  Eaton  Gardens,  Hove,  suggests 
that  Mr.  Lydekker's  cuckoo  is  one  that  has 
not  migrated, — and  therefore,  one  that  does 
not  count.  On  three  separate  occasions,  says 
Mr.  Myer,  he  saw  a  young  one,  late  last 
December,  in  Hove  Park. 

Then  conies  the  Duchess  of  Bedford.  She 
is  a  withering  cynic  on  the  subject  of  Febru 
ary  cuckoos.  People  hear  them,  she  points 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          103 

out,  but  never  see  them.  The  duchess  takes 
no  stock  whatever  in  the  song  heard  at  Har- 
penden.  But  Mr.  Louis  Byrde,  in  another 
letter,  is  willing  to  grant  Mr.  Lydekker's 
cuckoo.  Wherefore?  Because  he  saw  one 
himself,  between  Hatherleigh  and  Okehamp- 
ton,  and  on  February  3!  That  advantage 
of  one  day  (as  great  a  space  as  all  eternity 
to  your  true  cuckoo  observer)  is  what,  we 
may  imagine,  makes  him  so  lenient  with 
Mr.  Lydekker's  bird. 

Now,  into  the  fray  plunges  the  Rev.  J.  M.  S. 
Brooke.  He  stoutly  defends  the  original  state 
ment,  and  he  brings  Morris's  "British  Birds" 
(p.  47,  vol.  II)  to  vouch  for  the  fact  that  the 
cuckoo  was  both  seen  and  heard  at  Malvern, 
on  the  i2th  of  January,  1851.  We  may  imag 
ine  that  made  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  and 
Mr.  Myer  feel  absolutely  crushed. 

But  a  few  days  later  back  comes  Mr.  Ly- 
dekker  into  the  columns  of  the  "Times."  He 


104  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

is  not  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  either, — he  is 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  His  letter  begins  in 
the  dismal  phraseology  of  one  of  General 
Buller's  despatches  from  South  Africa.  "I 
regret  to  say,"  he  writes,  "that  I  have  been 
completely  deceived  in  the  matter  of  the 
supposed  cuckoo  of  February  4th.  The  note 
was  uttered  by  a  bricklayer's  laborer  at  work 
on  a  house  in  the  neighborhood  ...  I  have 
interviewed  the  man,  who  tells  me  that  he  is 
able  to  draw  cuckoos  from  considerable  dis 
tances  by  the  exactness  of  his  imitation  of  their 
notes,  which  he  produces  without  the  aid  of 
any  instrument." 

Truly,  it  will  be  a  sad  spring  for  Mr.  Ly- 
dekker.  Next  year  he  will  greet  those  liquid 
notes  in  the  lines  of  Wordsworth: 

0  blithe  new-comer!  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice: 

O  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS         105 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery. 

"If  Forbes  were  here,"  said  Sayles,  when 
Newberry  had  finished,  "he  would  want  to 
know  what  good  this  sort  of  thing  does." 

"It  is  rather  hard  to  see,"  observed  Bronson. 
"Where  do  all  these  cuckoo  enthusiasts  come 
from?  Why  do  they  have  nothing  else  to  do 
than  write  letters  to  the  "Times'?" 

"Oh,"  said  Newberry,  "it  simply  means 
the  presence  of  a  leisure  class,  such  as  is 
always  to  be  found  in  an  old  country.  Why, 
it  isn't  unknown  here.  There  are  people 
who  wrangle  with  each  other  over  similar 
questions  in  some  of  the  New  York  and  Bos 
ton  papers.  It's  a  good  thing.  They're  as 
valuable  to  the  community  as  the  '  tired  busi 
ness  man'  class,  and  they  don't  have  nervous 
prostration  so  quick." 


io6  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

Ryerson,  who  was  wandering  about  the 
room,  stopped  at  Newberry's  desk,  and  looked 
at  the  type-writer. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked,  "' Salad  Days? 
Your  early  love  affairs,  Newberry?" 

"No,"  said  Newberry,  "I  took  dinner 
with  the  Osterhouts,  last  night." 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you?"  inquired 
Dr.  Senn. 

Everyone  smiled.  Mrs.  Osterhout's  dinners 
are  famous.  Some  of  her  cook's  creations  are 
so  elaborate  that  it  seems  a  pity  to  eat  them. 
They  ought  to  be  preserved  in  a  museum. 

"I'm  all  right,"  replied  Newberry.  "Very 
nice  dinner, — and  it  gave  me  an  idea  for  an 
editorial." 

"May  I  read  it?"  asked  Ryerson,  who  had 
already  gone  half  through  it. 

"Read  it  aloud,"  said  Dr.  Senn. 

Ryerson  took  the  paper  out  of  the  machine 
and  read: 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          107 
OUR   SALAD  DAYS 

Nothing  better  illustrates  our  national  ex 
pansion  than  the  development,  from  humbler 
beginnings,  of  the  salad  which  garnishes  the 
dinner  table.  Consider  the  simple — the  shrink 
ing — salad  of  our  boyhood.  Lettuce  alone 
composed  it,  and  it  was  dressed — we  avert 
our  eyes  from  the  supercilious  gaze  of  the 
younger  generation — it  was  dressed  with  sugar 
and  vinegar!  Especially  fortunate  persons 
sometimes  added  a  tomato.  For  the  most 
part,  however,  we  had  lettuce  (with  that 
dressing  which  we  blush  to  mention)  or  noth 
ing  at  all.  There  were,  of  course,  those  prepa 
rations  in  which  chopped  meat  of  some  kind — 
chicken  or  lobster — played  a  conspicuous  part. 
But  then,  as  now,  such  dishes  went  far  to  con 
stitute  a  luncheon  or  a  supper.  They  were 
seldom  offered  as  a  separate  course  at 
dinner. 


io8  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

Then  came  the  middle  period — the  advance 
from  the  ruder  forms,  when  simplicity  and 
good  taste  were  nevertheless  observed.  The 
art  of  mixing  oil  and  vinegar  became  widely 
known  in  this  country.  It  was  no  longer 
possible  for  the  man  from  the  city,  looking 
about  the  dinner  table  in  a  country  hotel,  and 
inquiring  for  "the  oil,"  to  be  asked  by  the 
waitress  if  he  meant  kerosene.  As  olive  oil 
advanced  upon  the  stage,  sugar  shyly  re 
tired  from  the  scene.  There  were  good  salads 
in  those  days!  Honest  lettuce  and  tomatoes, 
celery,  or  perchance  chicory  or  cress,  with  a 
dressing  of  oil  and  vinegar,  salt  and  pepper. 
The  purpose  of  the  salad  was  understood:  it 
was  a  green  oasis  between  the  heavier  courses 
and  the  sweets.  A  skilfully  tempered  acidity 
was  its  prevailing  note.  Those  were  the  days 
of  the  salad's  best  period — the  Ionian  days, 
before  Persian  luxury  and  barbarity  had  come 
to  despoil  the  tender  dish. 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          109 

But  what  risks  are  run  by  the  diner-out 
of  today!  Look  at  the  salad  of  the  pres 
ent  period, — merciful  powers!  who  can  de 
scribe  it?  Strange  things  have  crept  into  it; 
sweet  fruits  infest  it;  jams,  jellies  and  com 
fits  are  poured  out  upon  it.  Cheeses — not 
improper  visitants  upon  its  outskirts — have 
advanced  into  the  heart  of  it;  nuts  and  other 
foreign  substances  turn  up  in  unexpected 
corners.  Whipped  cream  (0  temporal  O 
mores!)  lies  thick  upon  it;  each  new  hostess 
seems  to  be  seeking  some  "lucent  syrup 
tinct  with  cinnamon,"  by  which  to  disguise 
the  once  innocent  preparation.  Many  salads 
of  today  need  only  a  fountain  of  pink  lemon 
ade  playing  above  them,  and  a  couple  of 
artificial  swans  floating  upon  their  surface  to 
represent,  in  miniature,  a  children's  Fourth 
of  July  picnic.  Truly,  thou  salad  of  the  twen 
tieth  century,  thy  name  is  Flamboyance! 

In  the  days  of  Sidney  Smith  it  was  said 


HO  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

that    the    salad    would    "  tempt    the    dying 
anchorite  to  eat," — 

Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 
And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad  bowl! 

Today  it  would  be  a  brave  man  who  would 
plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad  bowl.  He  would 
be  afraid  of  getting  bitten. 

"Now,"  said  Newberry,  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  reading,  "I've  furnished  these  two 
elegant  extracts  from  my  writings, — letting 
you  hear  them  in  advance  of  the  readers 
of  the  l  Gazette,7  too.  This  is  not  a  one- 
man  band.  Someone  else  do  something, — or 
Bronson  will  be  reciting  '  Casey  at  the  Bat.' 
I  can  see  the  look  coming  over  his  face." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort!"  exclaimed  Bronson, 
"I  wouldn't  do  it  now  if  you  asked  me." 

"Besides,"  Newberry  continued,  in  a  peev1 
ish  voice,  "I've  got  to  provide  the  food  and 
drink  tonight,  and  the  tobacco,  and  some- 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          in 

body's  smoked  almost  all  of  that  box  of  very 
expensive  Zumurud  cigarettes." 

"Lenox/7  said  Sayles,  "ought  to  have  read 
a  paper  tonight,  but  he's  gone  to  the  hockey 
game.  I  cut  these  two  things  from  a  library 
paper,  and  I'll  offer  them,  to  fill  up  the  gap." 

"The  first,"  he  went  on,  "seems  to  have 
been  occasioned  by  the  announcement  that 
a  young  lady  librarian,  somewhere  or  other, 
had  'the  greatest  number  of  readers  of  serious 
books  of  any  librarian  in  the  State.'  Another 
librarian  is  moved  thus  to  address  the  lady. 

THE  PASSIONATE  LIBRARIAN  TO  HIS  LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  dwell — oh,  far  above 
The  silly  multitude  who  feed 
On  novels,  and  who  fiction  read. 

For  all  day  long  we'll  sit  and  pore 
Upon  the  very  dryest  lore; 
Some  ancient  gray-beard  shall  dispense  us 
The  latest  volumes  of  the  Census. 


112  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

And  I,  ah  I!  will  hold  your  hand 
And  sing  you  songs  of  Samarcand — 
Then  you  shall  softly  read  to  me 
From  Dr.  Ploetz'  " Epitome." 

When  through  the  fields  of  daisies  wide 
We  stroll  together,  side  by  side, 
I'll  bind  your  brows  with  pink  carnations 
And  read  you  from  the  "Wealth  of  Nations." 

Each  month  I'll  bring,  my  love   to  you, 
The  North  American  Review, 
Nor,  sweetheart,  shall  you  ever  lack 
For  Whitaker's  great  Almanack! 

Why,  Spencer,  Kant,  John  Stuart  Mill— 
They  all  await  your  word  and  will; 
Let  me  obey  your  fads  and  whims 
And  get  you  Cushing's  "Anonyms." 

In  winter  when  the  nights  are  cool 
The  "Index"  made  by  Dr.  Poole 
Shall  give  you  joy,  my  dearest  dove — 
So  live  with  me  and  be  my  love! 

"The  other,"  said  Sayles,  "is  this:" 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          113 

A  member  of  the  New  York  Public  Library 
staff  writes:  . 

"The  other  day  a  student  from  Columbia 
came  into  the  library  for  help  on  a  list  of 
references  in  history  which  he  was  to  read 
before  writing  a  thesis.  He  said,  'I  have 
found  most  of  the  books  in  the  Columbia 
library,  but  there  is  one  author  I  can't  find 
anywhere  and  I  have  spent  a  good  deal  of 
time  looking.  He  has  a  strange  name  and 
I  have  never  heard  of  him  as  a  historian, 
but  he  has  written  a  good  many  of  the  books 
on  my  list;  his  name  is  Ibid." 

This  question  of  the  identity  of  Ibid  is 
one  that  should  be  cleared  up.  High  school 
and  college  libraries  are  full  of  earnest  students 
who  admit  themselves  amazed  at  the  vast 
number  of  his  writings,  and  moreover  at  the 
universality  of  the  man.  "The  old  gink," 
we  heard  one  sophomore  complain,  "seems  to 
have  written  a  book  on  every  subject  in  the 


H4  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

world.  They're  all  the  time  quoting  him  in 
the  Greek  grammars,  and  I've  found  things 
by  him  on  psychology,  astronomy,  calculus 
and  political  economy.  My  roommate  says 
he  was  an  associate  and  collaborator  of  Ovid 
— they  got  out  a  book  of  poems  together, 
by  Ovid  and  Ibid,  or  Ibid  and  Ovid,  he's  not 
sure  which.  I've  hunted  all  through  that 
card-index  at  the  library,  but  they  don't 
seem  to  have  any  of  his  books — though  that 
doesn't  prove  much,  for  I  never  can  find 
anything  in  it.  I  asked  a  man  at  the  desk 
if  they  had  any  of  Ibid's  works,  and  he  had 
never  heard  of  him." 

For  the  benefit  of  this  sophomore  and  others 
it  should  be  said  that  it  is  a  healthy  sign  to 
have  an  interest  in  the  works  of  so  important 
a  writer  as  Ibid.  He  belongs  to  that  class 
of  authors  whose  books  are  so  important 
that  they  are  constantly  referred  to  in  foot 
notes;  a  class  that  includes  the  Cit  brothers, 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          115 

Op  and  Loc,  the  Roman  poetess  Vide  Supra, 
that  nondescript  personage  Infra,  and  the 
Italian  poet  Ante,  whom  we  are  frequently 
advised  to  see.  In  order  to  leave  no  doubt 
about  Ibid,  we  transcribe  the  following  para 
graph  about  him.  It  is  from  "The  Dictionary 
of  Authors,  Sacred  and  Profane,"  by  Enoch 
and  Eliphalet  Sneed.  (Worcester,  1799). 

IBID 

Ibid,  or  Ibidimus,  Marcus  Alias  Horten- 
sius.  Roman  poet  and  rhetorician.  Ibid  is 
supposed  to  have  flourished  about  240  B.  c., 
though  in  his  own  autobiography — a  work  of 
doubtful  authenticity — he  says:  "I  was  born 
Aug.  17,  185  B.  c."  He  is  the  author  of  "De 
te,  Fabula,"  "De  et  Nox"  and  over  three 
hundred  other  books.  He  invented  the  abla 
tive  absolute,  for  which  he  was  rewarded  by 
the  Senate  with  the  proconsulship  of  Ultima 
Verba.  His  military  career  seems  to  have  led 


Ii6  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

him  also  into  Northern  Italy,  for  it  is  recorded 
that  on  one  occasion,  after  a  long  siege,  "-he 
took  Umbrage,  and  retired  into  hither  Gaul." 
Umbrage  is,  perhaps,  a  false  reading  for  Um- 
bria.  The  latter  years  of  his  life  are  clouded 
in  mystery,  for  he  lived  mostly  in  exile.  He 
passed  his  time  in  writing  the  vast  number 
of  poems,  which  were  subsequently  published 
under  his  pen  name  of  "Anon."  Finally  he 
seems  to  have  trangressed  the  laws  seriously, 
for  he  was  hanged  in  Effigy,  a  town  in  Lower 
Egypt,  on  Christmas  Day,  102  B.  c. 

"That  man,"  said  Dr.  Senn,  "is  wrong 
about  one  thing, — the  poems  by  'Anon.'  At 
least,  he  is  wrong  if  this  clipping  is  correct. 
I  cut  it  out  of  a  paper  only  last  week.  Some 
one  had  named  the  '  Twenty  Worst  Poets/ 
and  included  'Anon.'  The  newspaper  man 
wrote  this  in  reply." 

And  he  read  the  following  item. 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          117 

In  behalf  of  one  of  these  unfortunate  poets 
someone  ought  to  take  up  a  whole  bunch  of 
cudgels.  He  is  that  fireside  favorite,  the 
recitationist's  darling,  and  the  elocutionist's 
white  hope — Anon.  May  this  right  hand 
forget  its  cunning — and  cuteness — before  it 
fails  to  come  to  the  defence  of  that  prince  of 
poets,  Anon!  He  is  the  mainstay  and  bread 
winner  for  many  an  Answers-to-Correspond- 
ents  column.  He  laughs  with  the  joyous 
and  mourns  with  those  in  affliction.  The  lyric 
passion  of  Shelley,  the  rich  beauty  of  Tenny 
son,  the  profound  thought  of  Browning,  and 
the  ripe  philosophy  of  Mrs.  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox — all  these  (and  more)  are  included  in 
the  pages  of  Anon. 

Anon  is  the  author  of  a  vast  number  of 
those  delightful  poems  about  the  death  of 
the  old  jockey.  These  fine  old  fellows  always 
became  seized,  a  few  moments  before  their 
dissolution,  with  a  desire  to  relate  to  someone 


n8  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

(usually  known  as  "lad")  the  story  of  how 
we  won  the  Diddlesex  Cup — how  "Rajah," 
or  some  other  horse,  with  the  old  jockey  on  his 
back,  romped  in  first,  thereby  winning  the  cup, 
lifting  the  mortgage  on  the  old  earl's  estates, 
setting  the  lovely  daughter  of  the  earl  free 
from  the  machinations  of  some  wily  rascal, 
and  making  things  pleasant  for  everybody, 
all  around.  They  usually  begin  something 
like  this: 

Come   hither,   lad,    the   lights   are   dim,    the 

shadows  grow  apace; 
Come    hither,    and   listen    while    I    tell    how 

Rajah  won  the  race; 
I  thank   'ee,  lad — your  arm  again — a  pillow 

now,  to  bear  the  old  man  up — 
'Tis  six  and  thirty  year  agone  since  Rajah 

won  the  cup! 

They  began  just  like  that,  and  kept  on  for 
pages  and  pages.  Oh,  they  were  great  old 
poems!  Remembering  them,  shall  we  allow 


A     NUMBER     OF     THINGS          119 

any  aspersions  to  be  cast  upon  their  author? 
No,  instead  we  will  turn  to  a  fine  set  of  his 
poems — the  "Complete  Works  of  Anon,"  in 
twenty-four  volumes,  full  crushed  levant, 
with  portrait  and  biographical  sketch — and 
revel  in  them  to  our  heart's  content. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FORGOTTEN  BOOKS 

The  records  of  the  Club  seem  to  show  that 
the  next  meeting  was  at  my  house,  and  that 
Lauriston  read  the  paper.  There  are,  in  the 
minutes,  some  satirical  reflections  upon  the 
failure  of  the  heating  apparatus, — apparently 
the  night  was  bitter  cold. 

It  was  a  farewell  appearance  for  Lauriston. 
His  newspaper  had  given  him  an  appointment 
in  its  Paris  bureau, — one  which  he  had  anx 
iously  desired.  So  we  all  congratulated  him, 
and  said  we  were  sorry  to  have  him  go, — 
which  was  true. 

He  apologized  to  Ryerson  for  taking  a  leaf 
out  of  his  book,  and  writing  about  books 
that  he  had  read,  and  a  library  that  he  had 
haunted,  in  the  past.  He  called  his  paper: 


120 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  121 

FORGOTTEN  BOOKS 

In  one  corner  of  the  library  there  lived  a 
Frenchman,  named  Monsieur  Jules  Verne. 
He  was  very  nearly  the  most  astonishing  and 
fascinating  person  in  all  that  collection  of 
marvels.  Nothing  was  hidden  from  him — 
neither  the  earth,  nor  the  air,  nor  the  waters 
that  are  under  the  earth.  He  knew  about 
submarine  boats  years  ahead  of  Holland; 
he  preceded  Peary  to  the  North  Pole  and 
Amundsen  to  the  South.  And  when  he — or 
one  of  his  characters — penetrated  to  the  apexes 
of  the  earth,  how  he  rose  to  the  dramatic  re 
quirements  of  the  situation! 

"I  held  the  chronometer.  My  heart  beat 
fast.  If  the  disappearance  of  the  half-disc 
of  the  sun  coincided  with  twelve  o'clock  on 
the  chronometer,  we  were  at  the  pole  itself. 

"' Twelve!'  I  exclaimed. 

"'The  South  Pole/  replied  Captain  Nemo, 


122  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

in  a  grave  voice,  handing  me  the  glass,  which 
showed  the  orb  cut  in  exactly  equal  parts  by 
the  horizon. 

"I  looked  at  the  last  rays  crowning  the 
peak,  and  the  shadows  mounting  by  degrees 
up  the  slope.  At  that  moment  Captain 
Nemo,  resting  with  his  hands  on  my  shoulder, 
said — 

"'I,  Captain  Nemo,  on  this  2ist  day  of 
March,  1868,  have  reached  the  South  Pole 
onjihe  ninetieth  degree;  and  I  take  possession 
of  this  part  of  the  globe,  equal  to  one-sixth  of 
the  known  continents.' 

"'In  whose  name,  Captain?' 

"'In  my  own,  sir!' 

"Saying  which,  Captain  Nemo  unfurled  a 
black  banner,  bearing  an  N  in  gold  quartered 
on  its  bunting.  Then,  turning  toward  the 
orb  of  day,  whose  last  rays  lapped  the  horizon 
of  the  sea,  he  exclaimed — 

"'Adieu,  sun!  Disappear,  thou  radiant  orb! 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  123 

Rest  beneath  this  open  sea,  and  let  a  night 
of  six  months  spread  its  shadows  over  my  new 
domains ! ' " 

There  is  tall  writing  for  you!  There  is 
something  to  set  your  teeth  in!  Why  can't 
they  discover  the  South  Pole  like  that,  now 
adays? 

Jules  Verne  left  you  in  no  doubt  concern 
ing  his  characters.  Their  nationality  was 
marked  upon  them.  The  Englishman  was  tall 
and  angular,  with  mutton-chop  whiskers, 
and  all  the  apparatus  of  the  typical  globe 
trotter.  The  Americans  were  so  many  Uncle 
Sams — temporarily  minus  their  striped  trou 
sers,  and  star-spangled  waistcoats.  But  I 
didn't  mind — I  liked  it.  What  a  perfect 
iceberg  of  imperturbability  (a  long  word,  but 
a  necessary  one)  was  his  discoverer  of  the' 
North  Pole — one  Captain  Hatteras.  He  was 
an  Englishman,  and  nothing  could  break 


124  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

down  his  iron  determination.  When  it  got  so 
cold  that  the  mercury  froze  stiff  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  thermometer,  was  he  dismayed? 
Not  a  bit;  he  took  that  frozen  lump  of  mercury, 
put  it  in  his  gun,  and  shot  a  polar  bear  with 
it!  It  was  a  very  lucky  incident,  as  a  matter 
of  fact — that  drop  in  temperature  to  about 
150  below  zero,  for  they  had  just  run  out  of 
bullets.  Only  the  frozen  mercury  saved  them. 
Nature  cannot  destroy  a  man  like  that.  She 
wastes  time  in  trying  to  do  it.  If  she  dropped 
him  in  a  blazing  volcano  (like  the  one  he 
found  at  the  North  Pole)  he  would  just  toast 
his  muffins  on  the  lava,  and  go  right  on. 

There  was  the  delightful  German  professor, 
scientist  and  bookworm,  who  crawled  down 
an  Icelandic  crater,  and  penetrated  to  the 
center  of  the  earth,  coming  out  in  Sicily, 
He  was  called  Yocul  Sneffels,  or  else  that  was 
the  name  of  the  man  who  showed  him  the 
way,  or  of  the  volcano  by  which  he  entered. 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  125 

I  forgot  precisely  what  it  was  the  name  of, 
but  the  sweet  music  of  it  haunts  my  ears  to 
this  day.  It  was  a  cloudy  and  dismal  No 
vember  noonday,  I  remember,  when  I  got  my 
clutches  on  that  book.  It  had  been  out  of 
the  library — in  the  possession  of  Tommy 
Eaton  for  nearly  a  month.  There  was  a  feud 
in  progress  between  Tommy's  gang  and  my 
eminently  respectable  associates,  and  any 
communication  between  us  would  have  been 
out  of  the  question.  But  at  last,  after  many 
weary  days  of  waiting,  I  heard  that  he  had 
returned  it.  Between  school  hours  I  hurried 
to  the  library.  The  cold,  dusty  streets,  the 
bare  trees,  the  hideous  angularity  of  a  small 
town  at  that  season,  and  that  hour  of  day, 
these  things  were  hardly  noticed.  They  were 
not  noticed  at  all;  was  I  not  going  to  the  centre 
of  the  earth  with  Jules  Verne  and  Mr.  Sneffels 

whatever  his  name  was? 
The    Jules    Verne    books    were    on    a    top 


126  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

shelf — fat,  broken-back  volumes,  with  pages 
torn  and  thumbed.  But  they  were  never 
dusty.  At  that  moment,  only  two  or  three 
out  of  the  dozen  or  more  were  on  the  shelf. 
Two  of  them  I  passed  over,  I  knew  which 
they  were,  and  I  had  read  them  three  times 
apiece.  They  had  been  there  yesterday,  and 
the  day  before,  and  the  day  before  that.  I 
knew,  for  I  had  inspected  them  once  at  least 
every  twenty-four  hours.  This  time  my 
desired  prize  was  there.  Inside  of  three 
minutes  I  was  hurrying  home  with  it.  The 
librarian  had  stamped  it,  and  handed  it  over 
to  me  in  a  matter  of  fact  way,  as  if  it  were 
so  much  paper  and  ink — he  did  not  seem  to 
know  that  it  was  the  key  to  joyous  mysteries! 
Does  anyone  who  hears  this  remember 
the  beginning  of  that  book?  Does  he  re 
call  the  slip  of  paper,  or  parchment,  found 
in  the  old  volume?  It  had  an  inscription 
in  Runic  or  Tunic,  or  some  ancient  tongue, 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  127 

and  it  gave  the  old  professor  the  hint  for  his 
wonderful  journey.  What  did  it  say?  I  can 
almost  recall  it.  "Descend  into  Yocul  of 
Sneffels" — that  is  where  the  SnefMs  business 
comes  in — I  remember  now,  "Descend  into 
Yocul  of  Sneffels  which  the  shade  of  Some 
thing-or-Other  caresses,  and  you  will  reach  the 
Centre  of  the  Earth.  I  did  it."  And  there 
was  a  phrase  about  "Adventurous  Traveller" 
in  it,  somewhere,  and  it  was  signed  by  "Arne 
Saknussen,"  or  a  similar  outlandish  name. 
And  the  professor  was  all  for  starting  for 
Iceland  right  away,  dragging  along  his  re 
luctant  nephew,  and  going  down  into  Sneffels 
as  fast  as  ever  he  could.  The  finding  of  that 
slip  of  parchment,  and  the  deciphering  of  it, 
those  were  great  moments.  They  made  me 
resolve  to  look  with  the  utmost  care  through 
every  old  volume  I  should  come  across. 

Well,  if  you  recall  how  that  book  began, 
you  will  understand  how  I  felt,  when  I  was 


128  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

compelled,  by  an  absurd  household  regulation, 
to  eat  my  dinner.  And  what  I  suffered,  an 
hour  later  when  a  detestable  bell  summoned 
me  to  school  to  spend  two  hours  in  the  ob 
noxious  and  degrading  company  of  Colburn's 
Arithmetic  and  Simpson's  Spelling  Book. 
There  was  only  one  consolation — I  looked 
up  Iceland  in  my  geography,  and  tried  to 
decide  which  one  of  those  small,  furry-looking 
objects,  which  represented  mountains,  was 
Sneffels.  It  was  impossible  to  tell;  the  whole 
island  was  no  bigger  on  the  map  than  a 
cent,  not  as  big  as  one  of  the  cents  we  had  in 
those  far-off  times.  I  made  a  pin-hole  in  one 
of  the  mountains,  however — that  one  would 
do,  in  default  of  evidence  to  the  contrary. 

As  soon  as  we  were  released  from  school, 
I  hurried  home,  and  in  spite  of  another 
interruption,  connected  with  food,  and  the 
fact  that  my  hour  of  going  to  bed  was  also 
a  matter  of  arbitrary  rule,  the  day  had  not 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  129 

ended  for  me  before  I  had  made  the  whole 
journey  with  the  professor,  his  nephew,  and 
the  faithful  guide.  I  think  there  was  a  faith 
ful  guide;  there  usually  was  one.  About  7.55 
P.  M.  (just  in  time!)  we  emerged  once  more 
upon  the  surface  of  the  earth — by  way  of 
Mount  Etna,  I  believe. 

They  do  not  seem  to  know  how  to  write 
books  like  that  today. 

It  is  a  funny  thing,  this  making  of  books. 
(I  claim  no  originality  for  the  remark).  A 
man  with  a  bad  digestion  sits  down  and 
drives  his  pen  wearily  across  reams  of  paper; 
some  other  men  set  type  and  send  the  result 
far  and  wide.  At  the  end  of  the  chain  you 
have  a  small  person — three  thousand  miles 
away — with  his  eyes  popping  out  of  his  head, 
delicious  chills  running  down  his  spine,  too 
scared  to  go  to  bed,  too  frightened  to  sit  up, 
yet  thirsty  for  more  and  still  more. 

"Give    me    a    highwayman,"    said    R.    L. 


130  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

Stevenson,  "and  I  was  full  to  the  brim;  a 
Jacobite  would  do,  but  the  highwayman  was 
my  favorite  dish.  I  can  still  hear  that  merry 
clatter  of  the  hoofs  along  the  moonlit  lane; 
night  and  the  coming  of  day  are  still  related 
in  my  mind  with  the  doings  of  John  Rann  or 
Jerry  Abershaw;  and  the  words,  ' post-chaise,' 
the  'great  North  road/  'ostler/  and  'nag'  still 
sound  in  my  ears  like  poetry.  One  and  all, 
at  least,  and  each  with  his  particular  fancy, 
we  read  story  books  in  childhood,  not  for 
eloquence  or  character  or  thought,  but  for 
some  quality  of  the  brute  incident." 

People  remember  with  affection  the  place 
where  they  met  their  sweethearts, — or,  they 
are  said,  in  story  books,  to  do  so.  And  prob 
ably  most  of  us  recall  how  the  stage  was  set 
for  our  first  encounter  with  some  of  our 
loves  in  the  form  of  books.  It  would  be  a 
commonplace  room  in  most  cases, — except 
for  that  radiance  which  the  story  itself  has 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  131 

shed  all  about.  When  dozens — a  whole 
King  Solomon's  harem — of  the  beloved  have 
been  encountered  within  the  walls  of  one 
building,  there  is  hardly  anything  which  can 
make  the  place  prosaic  and  matter  of  fact 
again.  It  must  always  shine  with  a  light  some 
thing  more  than  earthly. 

We  possessed,  in  those  days,  the  secret 
of  transmuting  books  into  magic  spells.  We 
had  the  credulous  brains,  the  foolish  hearts, 
which  accepted  preposterous  incidents  without 
question.  There  was  no  "willing  suspension 
of  disbelief,"  it  was  suspended  for  us,  without 
conscious  effort  on  our  part. 

Out  of  the  mass  of  books  which  held  us 
breathless,  there  remain  memories  of  certain 
tales,  which  cannot  be  identified.  Their  titles 
and  their  authors  vanished  from  our  minds 
long  ago.  Probably  the  charm  which  they 
exert  is  all  the  greater  on  this  account;  they 


132  THE     SECRET     BOOK       • 

belong  in  the  realm  of  elusive,  mystical 
things,  and  they  cannot  be  haled  up  into 
the  light  of  day  for  critical  examination. 
No  ordinary  ink  was  employed  in  their  making; 
they  seem,  in  retrospect,  to  have  been  written 
with  some  enchanted  fluid,  so  that  each  line 
glowed  like  the  initials  of  an  illuminated  manu 
script.  They  might  be  commonplace  enough, 
if  someone  should  be  so  unwise  as  to  dig  them 
out,  and  expose  them  to  view.  Certainly,  I 
will  never  hunt  up  my  own  lost  loves,  what 
ever  others  may  like  to  do.  They  shall  re 
main  in  that  wizard-light  which  has  surrounded 
them  for  twenty  years. 

There  is  a  story  of  a  sagacious  man  who 
lived  in  a  house  with  a  secret  room.  He 
showed  the  half -hidden  door  of  it  to  a  guest. 

"What  is  there,  inside?"  asked  the  guest. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  the 
owner. 

"Do  you   mean   to   tell   me  you've  never 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  133 

been  in  that  room?"  was  the  astonished  ques 
tion. 

"Of  course  I  haven't,"  said  the  man;  "if 
I  went  in,  then  I  should  no  longer  have  a 
secret  room." 

The  incident  (related,  perhaps,  by  the  au 
thor  of  "The  Gentle  Reader")  would  seem 
more  incredible  to  me  if  I  had  not  known  two 
persons  who  had  actually  possessed  a  secret 
apartment,  and  who  had,  through  a  lifetime, 
exercised  this  restraint  upon  their  curiosity, 
in  order  to  keep  their  curiosity  alive.  I  shall 
always  admire  such  people,  while,  at  the  same 
time,  I  fear  that  I  have  no  such  heroic  virtue 
myself.  Sometime,  while  I  hesitated  outside 
that  door,  I  should  have  proved  as  frail  as 
Bluebeard's  wife.  What  was  inside?  A 
dusty  skeleton?  A  rotting  bedstead,  upon 
which  lay  the  form  of  a  dead  girl  of  surpassing 
beauty?  Or,  best  of  all,  a  crumbling  chest 
or  trunk,  which  should  contain  the  docu- 


134  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

ments  to  clear  up  the  whole  mystery,  what 
ever  that  mystery  might  be.  Some  day  I 
should  have  been  weak,  and  turned  the  knob, 
and  forced  the  lock. 

But  I  will  not  burst  in  upon  the  secret  room 
which  contains  these  vanished  books.  I  do 
not  wish  to  know  their  names,  least  of  all 
do  I  wish  to  see  them  again.  There  might 
prove  to  be  dreary  passages  in  them;  they 
might  be  dull  or  flat.  Works  of  genius,  they 
seem,  assuredly,  as  I  look  back  upon  them; 
but  cold-blooded  inspection,  today,  might 
show  very  little  magic  ink  in  their  composi 
tion. 

One  of  them  dealt  with  some  lost  and  for 
gotten  nation,  hidden  in  the  recesses  of  a 
far-off  continent — South  America,  I  fancy. 
To  this  strange  people  came  the  leading  char 
acters  of  the  story — a  boy,  and  (oddly  enough) 
a  girl.  They  were  brother  and  sister,  and  I 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  135 

can  only  account  for  her  presence  by  suppos 
ing  that  the  author  of  the  book  was  a  woman. 
Few  of  my  favorite  authors  put  girls  into  their 
stories — indeed,  it  is  a  marvel  how  I  ever  got 
beyond  the  introductory  page  of  this  one. 
It  is  hard  to  understand  why  I  did  not  lay 
the  volume  down  in  disgust  as  soon  as  a 
petticoat  appeared.  That  was  my  usual 
practice.  This  must  have  been  the  work 
of  some  crafty  writer,  who  hoped  to  appeal 
to  an  audience  of  both  sexes. 

At  any  rate,  the  boy  and  his  sister  wander 
far  into  the  unknown,  and  discover  this  lost 
nation,  and  its  great  capital — a  city  of  untold 
wealth.  Just  what  happened  after  that  is 
altogether  vague.  There  was  something  about 
treasure,  of  course  (there  always  is,  and  al 
ways  should  be),  and  then  there  were  sur 
prising  difficulties  about  getting  home  again. 
There  was  a  river  which  ran  its  gloomy  length, 
not  through  caverns  measureless  to  man,  but 


136  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

between  precipitous  cliffs,  and  it  had — to 
my  great  delight — nuggets  of  gold  on  its 
shores.  And  there  was  some  horror  which 
lurked  in  the  vicinity — was  it  some  terrible 
kind  of  wild  beast,  or  some  especially  savage 
tribe,  with  very  unpleasant  habits — canni 
balism,  perhaps?  I  cannot  remember.  But  I 
know  that  you  couldn't  go  after  those  attract 
ive  nuggets  as  on  a  mere  holiday  excursion. 
You  took  your  life  in  your  hands,  and  there 
was  every  likelihood  of  your  dying  in  some 
gruesome  fashion.  Someone  did  die  in  that 
fashion,  in  the  course  of  the  story,  and  the 
author  described  his  decease  with  no  lack  of 
ghastly  details. 

Another  of  these  books  was  about  a  whaling 
voyage.  It  was  before  the  days  of  Mr.  Bullen, 
and  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  Herman  Mel 
ville.  It  was  an  extraordinarily  long  book, 
and  an  extraordinarily  varied,  if  not  unusually 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  137 

long,  voyage.  I  never  expected  to  get  home 
inside  of  three  years,  when  I  went  a-whaling 
in  those  days,  and  on  this  occasion  I  shipped 
not  only  for  three  years,  but  for  about  seven 
hundred  pages,  as  well.  When  we  got  home, 
we  had  not  only  the  usual  four  hundred  (or 
is  it  four  thousand?)  barrels  of  oil,  and  the 
customary  big  lump  of  ambergris  (worth 
$7000  alone)  but  some  of  us  had  been  in 
Spanish  prisons,  and  others  had  wooed  and 
won  Cuban  ladies  of  marvellous  beauty  (there 
were  always  these  unbearably  sentimental 
shipmates),  while  others  hadn't  returned  at 
all,  for  the  good  and  sufficient  reason  that 
they  had  been  swallowed  by  sharks.  They 
were  glad  to  see  us,  when  we  came  rolling  into 
our  home  port,  with  the  sides  of  our  ship  gray 
and  rusty  from  the  long  voyage,  and  parrots 
screaming  in  the  rigging.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong 
about  the  parrots — perhaps  they  belong  on  a 
pirate  craft,  or  an  East  Indiaman.  But  I 


138  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

don't  care;  it  pleases  me  to  have  them  on 
the  whaler,  and  there  they  shall  stay. 

About  the  last  of  these  books,  I  am  in  the 
greatest  doubt  of  all.  It  is  surrounded  by  a 
perfect  haze  of  uncertainty.  The  scene  is 
clear  enough,  but  the  incidents — if  incidents 
there  were — have  faded  like  a  month's  old 
dream.  Most  of  all  I  am  put  to  it  to  account 
for  the  presence  of  such  a  book  amongst 
my  reading  at  that  period.  There  was  no 
particular  reason  why  I  should  not  have  read 
it,  only  it  does  not  seem  likely  that  I  should 
have  cared  for  such  a  story.  There  was  noth 
ing  terrifying  about  the  slight  element  of  mys 
tery  that  overhung  it.  On  the  contrary  it 
was  all  very  gentle — so  gentle  that  I  wonder 
how  I,  who  thirsted  for  gore  in  my  literature, 
could  have  perused  it  and  fixed  it  in  my 
memory. 

Only  a  chapter  or  two  of  it  remains.    That 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  139 

section  concerns  an  old  house,  an  empty 
house,  standing  near  the  foot  of  a  lane.  The 
lane  runs  down  nearly  to  the  river,  and  ends 
in  a  deserted  wharf.  The  house  was  once 
painted  a  yellowish  brown,  a  color  that  a 
hundred  years  of  wind  and  rain  have  converted 
into  a  dull  tint  like  the  moss  on  a  rock. 
Many  of  the  window  panes  have  been  broken, 
some  of  them  stuffed  with  rags.  Small  fields 
and  vacant  lots  surround  the  house — there 
is  no  other  building  near  it.  In  the  late  after 
noons  of  the  warm  autumn  weather  a  group 
of  children  play  tag  and  hide-and-seek  in  these 
fields  around  the  house,  and  down  to  the  old, 
dilapidated  wharf. 

At  a  certain  time  every  afternoon — for 
several  days  the  children  do  not  notice  that 
it  is  at  the  same  hour — an  old  gentleman — 
a  tall,  old  man — comes  down  the  lane  and 
enters  the  house.  He  is  a  nice,  old  man; 
tall,  and  a  little  feeble,  but  still  erect  and 


140  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

soldierly.  He  has  been  a  sailor,  I  think — 
more  than  that — a  naval  officer,  a  captain 
or  commodore,  perhaps.  A  little  old-fashioned 
in  his  dress,  but  more  citified  than  actually 
old-fashioned.  The  black  clothes,  the  high 
hat,  the  walking-stick,  the  gloves,  and  the 
spotless  linen  seem  odd  to  the  children  in 
this  little,  out-of-the  way  seaport,  more  than 
does  any  slight  antiquity  in  the  cut  of  the 
coat,  or  shape  of  the  hat.  Once  or  twice,  on 
his  afternoon  visits,  he  nods  and  waves  his 
stick  to  the  children,  who  regard  him  for 
an  instant,  and  then  go  on  with  their 
game. 

It  is,  perhaps,  on  his  third  visit,  that  some 
of  the  curious  ones — some  of  the  girls,  I 
think — begin  to  wonder  what  the  old  gentle 
man  is  doing  in  the  deserted  house.  They 
propose  that  they  shall  creep  up,  and  peer 
in  the  windows.  It  is  twilight  now,  they  say, 
and  they  would  never  be  seen.  Others  of  the 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  141 

children  do  not  want  to  do  that — one  of  them 
has  some  money  and  has  promised  to  buy  some 
barley  sticks  and  treat  the  rest  of  the  group. 
They  are  in  favor  of  going  up  the  lane  to 
the  store,  which  is  half  a  mile  distant.  But 
the  girls  insist  on  spying  upon  the  old  man, 
so  three  of  them,  and  two  of  the  younger 
boys,  tiptoe  across  the  vacant  lot,  and  look 
in  at  the  windows. 

Three  minutes  later  they  are  running  at 
full  speed  up  the  lane.  When  the  rest  of 
the  children  overtake  them,  it  is  hard  to  find 
out  just  what  has  happened.  One  of  the  boys 
and  one  girl  looked  in  at  a  rear  window,  and 
they  saw  nothing  at  all.  Why  did  they  run? 
Because  the  others  did.  As  for  the  others — the 
two  girls  and  one  boy — their  accounts  of  what 
they  saw  are  more  or  less  confused.  The  boy 
stoutly  maintains  that  he  saw  nothing — not 
even  the  old  gentleman — but  that  he  was 
frightened  because  the  room  was  "so  empty." 


142  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

The  girls  agree  that  they  saw  the  old  man  in 
the  black  coat,  and  that  there  was  "a  lovely 
lady — a  lady  with  white  hair — but  she  was  a 
young  lady,  for  her  eyebrows  were  black,  and 
her  cheeks  were  red,  and  she  sat  in  a  chair 
near  the  fire — yes,  there  was  a  fire  in  the 
fire-place,  and  there  was  the  old  gentleman 
leaning  over  her,  and  talking  to  her,  and  they 
didn't  know  why  they  ran,  but  they  were 
both  frightened  all  at  once,  and  so  they  ran." 
This,  and  much  more,  and  much  argu 
ment — especially  about  the  lady's  dress — 
which  was  like  nothing  they  had  ever  seen; 
and  about  the  marvel  of  her  white  hair.  The 
story  ends  at  this  point,  as  far  as  I  am  con 
cerned.  I  cannot  place  it;  I  cannot  give  its 
sequel,  if  any  there  was.  Did  the  old  man 
continue  his  visits — promptly  every  afternoon 
at  four — did  he  spend  some  time  in  that 
dreary,  empty  room,  and  did  there,  perhaps, 
in  the  manner  of  such  stories,  come  a  day 


FORGOTTEN     BOOKS  143 

when  he  went  in,  but  came  out  no  more? 
Was  he,  perhaps,  as  much  a  figment  of  child 
ish  imagination  as  the  beautiful  lady  by  the 
fire?  I  can  answer  none  of  these  questions. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LAURISTON 

Lauriston  was  the  last  to  go.  He  stayed 
behind,  while  I  made  one  final  assault  upon 
the  fire,  to  try  to  get  the  room  warm.  A 
few  small  sticks  created  a  blaze,  but  Lauriston 
refused  to  draw  up  his  chair  to  the  fire,  or, 
indeed,  to  sit  down  at  all.  Nor  would  he 
smoke.  He  seemed  a  little  excited. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  finally,  "have  you 
seen  this?" 

It  was  a  crumpled  auction  catalogue  which 
he  drew  from  his  pocket.  I  looked  it  over. 
I  had  not  seen  it  before,  but  there  appeared 
to  be  nothing  unusual  in  it,  and  I  said  as 
much. 

"Look  at  lot  181,"  he  said. 
144 


LAURISTON  145 

I  turned  to  that  number, — it  was  blank. 
Both  before  and  after  it  were  the  ordinary 
auction  items.  Number  180  was  one  of  the 
eternal  "Tom  and  Jerry''  books;  and  182 
was  a  set  of  Hogarth  prints, — quite  the  stock 
entries  in  an  auction  catalogue.  There  was 
the  number — 181 — and  a  blank  space,  nothing 
more.  I  looked  at  the  cover.  The  sale  was 
to  take  place  in  London,  at  the  rooms  of  the 
famous  Messrs  Atherby,  about  ten  days  hence. 
The  library  to  be  sold,  was  that  of  the  usual 
"private  gentleman." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "what  of  it?" 

"This,"  he  returned,  still  in  his  mysterious 
manner. 

He  handed  me  a  letter.  In  it,  the  Messrs. 
Atherby  presented  their  compliments  to  Mr. 
Lauriston,  and  begged  to  thank  him  for  his 
inquiry.  They  were  forced  to  reply,  however, 
that  they  could  not,  at  present,  make  known 
the  precise  identity  of  the  lot  in  the  forth- 


146  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

coming  sale,  about  which  he  had  been  so  good 
as  to  inquire.  They  assured  him,  however, 
that  it  was  an  item  of  the  highest  possible 
interest  to  all  book  collectors.  If  Mr.  Lauris- 
ton  should  call  at  their  rooms,  during  his 
projected  visit  to  London,  they  hoped  to 
apprise  him  of  certain  other  details,  which 
would,  they  believed,  explain  their  reticence. 

"If  it  was  anywhere  than  Atherby's,"  said 
I,  "you'd  think  it  was  something  which 
would  get  them  in  trouble  with  the  police. 
Has  someone  stolen  the  Book  of  Kells,  or 
Shakespeare's  copy  of  Ovid  from  the  Bod 
leian?" 

"No,"  said  Lauriston,   "more  than  that." 

"Well,    for    Heaven's    sake,    what    is    it?" 

"It's  The  Secret  Book." 

I  stopped  my  work  on  the  fire. 

"You  don't  believe  that?" 

"I  certainly  do  believe  it." 

"But  that  was  a  dream — or  delirium." 


LAURISTON  147 

"You  said  yourself,"  he  insisted,  "that  you 
believed  in  The  Secret  Book." 

"I  do/'  I  replied,  "or,  at  any  rate,  I  be 
lieve  in  the  legends  about  it.  If  there  was  such 
a  book, — and  it's  perfectly  possible  that  there 
may  have  been,  it  has  disappeared,  long  ago." 

"Well,  it's  appeared  again,"  he  replied. 

He  was  so  much  in  earnest  that  I  couldn't 
contradict  him  flatly. 

"Even  if  it  should  appear,"  I  pointed  out, 
"it  would  never  be  put  up  at  public  auction. 
Some  of  those  scouts  for  the  millionaires 
would  have  snapped  it  up,  long  ago." 

"It  isn't  exactly  a  public  auction,"  Lauris- 
ton  went  on.  "It  isn't  advertised  in  any  way. 
I  happen  to  know  that  these  catalogues  have 
been  sent  to  very  few  persons.  Moreover, 
there  are  methods  in  which  the  sale  of  that 
particular  item  could  be  kept  restricted." 

"But  why—"  I  began. 

"Because    of    the    danger    attending    its 


148  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

possession.  You  know  its  history.  That 
Englishman, — Sedling,  was  the  last  one  known 
to  have  it.  And  you  remember  how  he  dis 
appeared." 

It  is  easy  to  smile  at  such  fancies  when  they 
are  uttered  by  someone  else  than  Lauriston. 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  you  believe  it 
to  be  a — a, — what  shall  I  say?  A  haunted 
book?" 

"Not  in  the  sense  that  you  mean.  But — 
well — there  are  influences  at  work,  and, — 
interests  involved,  of  which  I  have  some  sus 
picion.  I  have  a  hint  of  the  truth,  at  any 
rate." 

He  began  putting  on  his  coat. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  auction?"  I  asked 
him. 

"I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  anything  in  the 
world.  I  shall  get  to  London  that  morning." 

"What  particular  plutocrat  are  you  going 
to  bid  for?" 


LAURISTON  149 

"No  one.  It's  on  my  own  hook  ...  It 
isn't  a  question  of  money.  Look  here," 
he  pointed  his  finger  at  me,  "Atherby  doesn't 
know  anything  more  about  it  than  we  do, — 
not  so  much!  I  don't  believe  they've  seen  the 
book,  or  heard  its  title.  And  they  will  not. 
I  shall  deal  with  the  owner  of  it." 

I  tried  to  quiz  him  still  farther,  but  he 
remained  enigmatic.  Then  he  shook  hands 
with  me,  and  departed. 

"If  I  get  it," — he  turned  and  spoke  at  the 
door,  "I'll  send  you  a  post-card  with  'Luck' 
on  it." 

When  I  was  back  in  the  library  I  went  to 
the  window,  and  looked  down  the  street. 
I  could  see  Lauriston's  thin  figure  disappear 
ing  in  the  distance.  His  coat  collar  was  turned 
up,  and  his  hands  were  shoved  deep  in  his 
pockets.  Then  he  stepped  into  the  black 
shadows  beyond  the  last  arc-light,  and  van 
ished. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"BOOK-LEARNING  " 

Pratt  came  to  the  next  meeting,  boiling 
with  rage.  Pratt  teaches  physics  at  a  boy's 
school. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "do  you  ever  read 
this  'Librarian'  column  in  the  Boston  Tran 
script?" 

No  one  answered  him.  Lenox  and  Tilden 
were  beginning  one  of  their  usual  piquet 
games;  Ryerson  and  Sayles  had  been  in  a 
wrangle  over  politics  on  their  way  to  the 
meeting,  and  were  still  glowering  at  each 
other.  Everyone  was  too  much  occupied  to 
pay  any  special  attention  to  Pratt. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I'm  going  to  read  this. 

Somebody  ought  to  answer  it." 

150 


"BOOK-LEARNING"  15-1 

"Go  ahead,"  remarked  Crerar,  who  was 
lying  on  a  couch  in  the  corner,  gazing  placidly 
at  the  ceiling. 

And  Pratt  read: 


"  BOOK-LEARNING" 


"The  public  library  is  an  integral  part  of 
public  education,"  I  dictated. 

Then  I  paused,  and  addressed  Miss  Sims, 
my  stenographer. 

"That's  rather  neat,  I  think?" 

She  bit  her  pencil,  doubtfully. 

"Seems  to  me  Fve  heard  it  before,  some 
where,"  she  suggested. 

"I  should  hope  so!  You  wouldn't  have 
me  make  a  new  and  original  statement  at 
a  meeting  of  librarians,  would  you?  That 
would  never  do!  Part  of  them  would  de 
nounce  me  as  flippant,  and  the  rest — the 
library  magazines,  for  instance — would  refer 
condescendingly  to  what  I  said  as  'clever/ 


152  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

which  means  'smart  but  shallow.'  The  great 
art  of  a  library  meeting  speech,"  I  con 
tinued,  "is  to  utter  as  many  solemn  platitudes 
as  possible  with  a  very  solemn  face.  It  is 
always  sure  to  be  called  both  'scholarly' 
and  'sound.'" 

"Let  us  resume  the  dictation,"  said  I. 
"The  librarian  is  an  educator.  As  Dr.  John 
son  said — I  refer,  of  course,  when  I  speak  of 
Dr.  Johnson's  educators  to  the  Johnson  who 
made  the  dictionary,  not  him  who  invented 
educator  crackers — as  Dr.  Johnson  said — " 

At  this  moment  Edgar,  the  library  page, 
put  his  head  into  my  office  with  his  usual 
delightful  absence  of  all  formality,  and  re 
marked  that  "that  feller  named  Beebe  wants 
to  see  yer." 

Mr.  Beebe  is  an  earnest  and  admirable 
young  gentleman,  a  member  of  the  Fresh 
man  class  in  Harvard  University.  He  is 
the  holder  of  a  scholarship  from  a  Harvard 


"  BOOK-LEARNING"  153 

club  of  which  I  am  a  member.  He  frequently 
consults  me  on  matters  pertaining  to  his 
studious  pursuits,  and  endeavors,  when  at 
home,  to  use  our  public  library  as  a  substitute 
for  the  University  Library  at  Cambridge. 
As  this  was  Saturday  afternoon,  I  was  not 
surprised  to  hear  that  he  was  at  home.  Also, 
I  remembered  my  duty  toward  my  amanuen 
sis. 

"Miss  Sims,  you  have  already  worked  an 
hour  overtime.  Thank  you,  very  much, 
I  won't  keep  you  any  longer.  We  can  finish 
this  dictation  Monday  afternoon,  if  I  get  a 
chance  ....  Edgar,  you  may  tell  Mr.  Beebe 
to  come  in." 

Strangely  enough  Miss  Sims  hurried  out  in 
evident  delight.  I  thought  that  she  might 
have  begged  to  remain  and  take  down  the 
rest  of  my  rolling  periods  about  the  librarian 
as  an  educator,  with  which  I  was  going  to 
electrify  the  Buncombe  County  Library  Club 


154  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

next  month.  But  she  didn't.  In  less  than 
two  seconds  her  chair  was  empty,  and  in  less 
than  five  more  Mr.  Beebe  was  sitting  in  it. 

He  had  two  books  under  his  arm.  Then 
he  had  a  list  of  four  or  five  others  for  which 
Miss  Carter  had  been  hunting.  There  were 
a  few  other  titles  which  we  do  not  own  at  all. 
These  Mr.  Beebe  requested  us  to  purchase 
without  an  instant's  delay.  It  seemed  that  he 
was  about  to  write  an  important  thesis  on 
"The  Age  of  Leucippos."  I  hope  I  have  the 
title  of  his  thesis  right,  but  I  am  not  sure. 
Events  which  have  occurred  since  our  inter 
view  have  made  me  shaky  in  these  matters, 
and  loosened  my  grip  on  things  intellectual. 

If  it  really  was  "The  Age  of  Leucippos," 
which  Mr.  Beebe  was  to  expound,  I  need 
not  point  out  that  "age"  was  used  in  the 
sense  of  "epoch"  or  "period."  It  was  not  an 
investigation  about  the  number  of  years 
which  elapsed  between  the  birth  and  death  of 


"BOOK-LEARNING"  155 

Leucippos.  At  least,  I  think  not.  When  I 
remember  the  infinitesimal  topics  upon  which 
I  was  directed  to  cast  the  searching  light  of 
my  intelligence,  when  I  recall  the  fine  points 
which  I  elucidated  upon  forty  or  fifty  pages 
of  large,  white  paper,  in  the  golden  years 
through  which  Mr.  Beebe  is  now  passing — 
when  I  remember  this,  I  cannot  be  positive. 
Perhaps  he  was  ransacking  the  libraries,  and 
burning  the  midnight  electricity  to  discover 
how  old  was  Leucippos  when  he  died.  It 
may  be  so. 

At  any  rate,  we  plunged  into  a  discussion 
of  Leucippos,  and  the  best  authorities  on  his 
career.  I  mentioned  casually,  and  without 
ostentation,  that  his  election  as  Archon  of 
Syracuse  was  really  the  turning  point  in  his 
career,  and  that  Von  Gompertz's  biography 
was  generally  accepted  as  the  most  reliable, 
if  not  the  fullest  account  of  his  life.  At  this, 
Mr.  Beebe  looked  puzzled  and  then  pained. 


156  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

He  explained  as  gently  as  possible  that  Leu- 
cippos  had  nothing  to  do  with  politics  in 
Syracuse.  He  was  a  satirical  poet  contempo 
rary  with  Opisthenes  the  Younger,  and  a 
member  of  the  school  of  poets  founded  by 
Anaximander  of  Oxyrhyncus. 

I  explained,  hastily,  that  I  must  have 
misunderstood  the  name;  of  course,  I  was 
thinking  of  Leucippos  the  Argive — brother 
of  the  famous  Hedonist,  Kallikrates.  But  I 
wished  I  had  kept  quiet,  for  Mr.  Beebe  in 
stantly  remarked  that  he  was  never  Archon 
of  Syracuse,  they  didn't  have  any  Archons  in 
that  city,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  The  man  I 
meant  was  probably  Satrap  of  Bazoolium 
during  the  twenty-third  dynasty. 

This  seemed  the  proper  place  to  put  my 
foot  down.  I  have  no  objection  to  listening 
to  the  wisdom  which  proceeds  from  the 
mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings,  but  no  man 
can  stand  being  corrected  by  a  Freshman. 


"BOOK-LEARNING"  157 

"Oh,  no,  I  think  not/'  I  said,  and  I  reached 
for  an  encyclopaedia.  But,  would  you  believe 
it?  That  miserable  Freshman  was  right. 
There  it  was — "Leucippos  the  Argive,  Satrap 
of  Upper  Bazoolium,  overlord  of  Pharnabazos 
of  Thrace,  etc." 

I  decided  to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Beebe  as  soon 
as  I  could.  So  I  took  him  out  to  Miss  Carter 
again,  and  told  him  to  give  her  a  list  of  the 
books  he  needed.  We  would  borrow  them,  or 
buy  them,  if  possible.  Then  I  got  my  hat 
and  went  home,  in  a  state  of  considerable  de 
jection. 

Jane  met  me  with  one  word. 

"Gloom,"  said  she. 

"Look  here,"  I  remarked,  "do  you  consider 
me  an  educated  person?" 

"Ye-es,"  she  conceded,  "but  never  pain 
fully  so." 

"I  have  enough  diplomas  of  one  kind  or 
another,"  I  remarked,  hurling  my  hat  into  a 


158  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

chair,  "to  paper  one  side  of  a  small  room. 
I  have  no  intention  of  using  them  for  that 
purpose,  but  the  fact  remains.  I  have  been 
secretary  of  the  Buncombe  County  Library 
Club.  My  bibliography  of  the  Shoguns  has 
been  termed — in  print — a  scholarly  piece  of 
work.  No  one  has  ever  looked  at  it,  except 
the  unfortunate  reviewer;  it  is,  I  am  proud 
to  say,  of  no  earthly  use  to  anyone.  That 
is  how  I  know  it  merits  what  the  review  said 
about  it.  There  is  nothing  popular  about  it, 
at  all.  And  yet,  something  which  happened 
this  afternoon  has  made  me  question  whether 
I  am  really  educated.  It  is  not  the  first  time, 
either.  Only  last  Wednesday  a  high-school 
boy  came  into  the  library  to  inquire  what 
happens  if  you  put  sulphuric  acid  on  sugar." 

Jane  made  the  sound  which  is  the  favorite 
utterance  of  Indians,  according  to  all  properly 
constructed  Indian  stories.  She  said  "Ugh!" 
Then  she  remarked: 


"  BOOK-LEARNING"  159 

I  should  think  it  would  make  a  horrid 


mess." 


"It  does,  without  any  doubt/ '  I  replied, 
"but  that  is  not  the  scientific  way  of  looking 
at  it.  Scientifically  it  results  in  SUG  plus 
H2S04,  or  SPQR  or  RSVP  or  something  of 
the  sort.  Nobody  in  the  front  of  the  library 
knew  just  what  it  was,  however,  and  they 
sent  him  in  to  me." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  looked  in  all  the  books  about  sulphuric 
acid,  and  then  I  looked  in  all  the  books  about 
sugar.  Do  you  know  it  has  never,  apparently, 
occurred  to  any  mortal  soul,  in  the  whole 
history  of  the  human  race,  to  mix  those  two 
things  together?  Never  until  this  high-school 
boy  came  along.  I  think  that  is  rather  im 
pressive.  " 

"Did  you  answer  his  question?" 

"I  advised  him  to  go  home  and  try  it 
for  himself.  I  told  him  that  that  is  the  true 


160  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

scientific  spirit.  Take  nothing  for  granted. 
Test  everything." 

"But  it  might  have  exploded,  or  some 
thing,  and  hurt  him  dreadfully,  or  got  all 
over  his  clothes,  or  set  the  house  on  fire." 

"The  real  scientist  cares  nothing  for  that. 
Suppose  he  did.  Suppose  Marconi,  for  in 
stance,  should  have  refrained  from  inventing 
the  wireless  telegraph  because  he  was  afraid 
it  might  get  all  over  his  clothes.  Suppose 
Madame  Curie  should  have  balked  at  the 
invention  of  radium  because  it  might  get  all 
over  her  clothes.  You  and  I  would  have  gone 
through  life  without  any  radium.  Suppose — " 

Jane  interrupted  me. 

"What  are  you  hunting  for?" 

I  was  looking  through  the  lower  drawers 
of  my  desk.  As  she  spoke  I  pulled  out  a 
bunch  of  catalogue  cards.  The  rubber  band 
around  them  broke,  and  they  fell  in  a  dis 
tressing  shower  on  the  floor. 


^BOOK-LEARNING"  161 

"There  goes  the  original  manuscript  of 
my  bibliography  of  the  Shoguns,"  I  said, 
dolefully. 

"I'll  help  you  pick  them  up,"  said  Jane, 
"if  you'll  tell  me  what  you  are  looking  for. 
I  had  that  desk  all  cleared  up — " 

"So  I  fancied." 

"And  now  you're  getting  it  all  in  a  heap 
again.  What  is  it  you  want?" 

"Those  examination  papers — those  college 
examinations.  I  am  going  to  look  them  over. 
I  wish  to  know  if  all  my  knowledge  has  de 
parted.  I  intend  to  discover  if  I  am  an 
educated  person  or  not." 

"Oh,  those!"  she  exclaimed,  "they're  in 
here.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  Here 
they  are  ...  Gracious!" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Who's    Phig— Phig— Phigaleia?" 

"I  never  heard  of  her — or  it.  What  does 
it  say  about  him?" 


162  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"You  must  have  heard  it.  You  answered 
a  question  about  her.  Here  it  is:  'The  temple 
of  Phigaleia.  When,  by  what  architect,  and 
to  what  divinity  was  it  erected?  Describe  or 
draw  its  plan,  and  show  where  its  principal 
sculptural  decoration  was  placed.'  Could  you 
do  that  now?" 

"I  could  not.  Perhaps  I  took  another 
question." 

"Well,  here's  the  next  one.  ' Describe  the 
so-called  Harpy  Tomb,  stating  where  it  stood 
and  its  approximate  date.'  Can  you  do  that?" 

I  parried  the  question. 

"I  like  the  use  of  the  phrase  'so-called' 
in  that,"  said  I.  "Someone  was  thinking  of 
possible  libel  suits.  No  one  likes  to  hear  his 
relatives  described  as  harpies,  even  after  they 
are  dead." 

Jane  continued  inexorably. 

"'  Define  briefly  the  following  terms,'" 
she  read,  and  then  interrupted  herself  to 


''BOOK-LEARNING"  163 

say:  "The  word  'briefly7  is  in  italics — oh, 
dear,  I  can't  pronounce  these  words." 

I  took  the  paper  and  looked  at  it.  They 
might  have  spared  the  italics.  My  definitions 
would  not  have  been  lengthy.  The  terms 
were  "(a)  abacus,  (b)  cella,  (c)  hypostyle, 
(d)  mastaba,  (e)  megaron,  (f)  pronaos,  (g) 
xoanon." 

"Can  you  define  'em?"  asked  Jane. 

"An  abacus,"  I  remarked  with  dignity, 
"is  a  kind  of  counting  machine  to  teach 
arithmetic  to  children.  I've  often  seen  pic 
tures  of  them  on  the  first  page  of  dictionaries. 
They  come  next  after  'aardvark,'  which  is 
a  kind  of  animal  with  a  long  snout,  like  an 
ant-eater." 

"I  don't  see  what  they  have  got  to  do  with 
an  exam,  in  ancient  art,"  said  Jane;  "what's 
an  x-o-a-n-o-n? "  said  she,  spelling  it  out. 

I  did  not  intend  to  be  bullied  by  Jane. 

"The  xoanon,"   I  replied,   "was  the  inner 


164  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

sanctum,  or  robing-room  of  the  Egyptian 
priests.  It  was  placed  just  back  of  the  peri 
cardium." 

"What's  the—" 

But  I  had  had  enough  of  ancient  art.  I 
suggested  that  we  try  some  other  subject. 
Jane  took  up  another  paper,  and  chose  a 
question  by  shutting  her  eyes,  and  jabbing 
at  it  with  her  finger. 

"'What  is  Saint-Simon's  opinion  of  Dan- 
geau's  Journal?  In  what  respects  do  his  own 
Memoires  differ  from  Dangeau's  work?"3 

"I  never  answered  that  question!" 

"Yes,  you  did.  You  must  have.  It  says 
at  the  top:  'Omit  six  of  the  questions,  except 
10,  19  and  24,'  and  this  is  10.  You've  marked 
it." 

I  leaned  back  and  closed  my  eyes. 

"Saint-Simon  was  a  cynic.  Therefore  he 
probably  had  a  low  opinion  of  Whatsisname's 
Journal.  He  probably  roasted  it.  He — " 


"BOOK-LEARNING"  165 

"Wasn't  there  a  name  for  that  kind  of 
answer?"  said  Jane. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  sheepishly,  "it  was 
called  drooling." 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  anything  about 
it  at  all." 

"I  don't.  I  am  as  innocent  of  all  knowl 
edge  of  Dangeau  as  the  proverbial  babe 
unborn.  Yet  I  must  have  known  him  once — 
I  passed  the  exam." 

"Let's  try  another  paper.  .  .  .  Here's  one — 
it  doesn't  look  like  a  question,  though.  It 
just  says:  'The  place  of  polyandry  and  exog 
amy  in  the  evolution  of  the  family.'" 

"To  think,"  I  reflected,  "that  I  had  tre 
mendous  questions  like  that  batted  up  to  me 
when  I  was  only — "  I  made  a  calculation — 
"only  nineteen  and  a  half.  ...  As  for 
polyandry,  it  is  a  highly  popular  and  fashion 
able  custom  even  to  this  day.  It  is  the  foun 
dation  of  Mr.  Robert  W.  Chambers's  fortune. 


i66  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

I  don't  recall  what  it  had  to  do  with  the 
evolution  of  the  family,  however.  As  for 
that  other  thing— exogamy — I  committed  that 
when  I  married  you." 

Jane  looked  alarmed. 

"Simply  that  I  married  a  resident  of  an 
other  place,  that's  all.  There  is  no  social 
stigma  connected  with  it." 

"What,"  asked  Jane,  "is  the  Elberfeld 
System?" 

"Give  it  up.    Try  another  paper." 

"Six  coins,  each  of  radius  a,  are  placed 
close  together  on  a  table  so  that  their  centres 
are  at  the  vertices  of  a  regular  hexagon.  Find 
the  perimeter  and  the — '  " 

"Pass  on,"  I  said,  "swiftly!" 

"Here's  another  paper:  '  During  war  be 
tween  States  A  and  B,  a  ship  is  captured  by  a 
cruiser  of  A.  The  ship  belongs  to  X,  a  citizen 
of  A  residing  in  B,  and  the  cargo,  consisting 
of  coffee,  to  Y,  a  citizen  of  B  residing  in  a 


''BOOK-LEARNING"  167 

neutral  State,  C.  Three-fourths  of  the  cargo 
was  grown  on  a  plantation  belonging  to  Y, 
in  State  B-— '" 

"I  have  a  slight  headache.  I  won't  tackle 
that  one." 

"Can  you  ( describe  the  physical,  physi 
ological,  and  psychological  processes  which 
follow  each  other  in  the  air,  in  the  ear  (es 
pecially  in  the  cochlea),  in  the  nervous  system 
and  in  consciousness  when  we  hear  four 
simultaneous  tuning-fork  tones  of  400,  500, 
600,  and  800  vibrations?" 

I  moaned  slightly,  and  Jane  shuffled  the 
papers,  turning  from  one  to  another. 

"'Does  Mill  believe  there  is  an  unearned 
increment?  Does  Hadley?'  Can  you  discuss 
the  religious  ideas  of  the  seventeenth  century 
as  revealed  by  Pascal  and  by  Bossuet?  Can 
you  describe  the  northern  boundary  of  Mary 
land  and  trace  its  history  to  1775?  Can  you 
give  a  summary  of  the  facts  concerning  Bacon's 


168  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

relations  with  Coke?  Would  you  like  to  com 
pare  the  Lady  of  Shalott  with  Elaine  of  Asto- 
lat?  What  do  you  think  of  Penn's  attitude 
on  the  southern  boundary  of  Pennsylvania? 
What  do  you  know  about  the  Royal  Marriage 
Act  of  1772?  Is  society  an  organism?  Can 
you  show  that  every  universal  proposition 
involves  a  negation?" 

"Cease,"  I  remarked.  "I  cannot,  and  do 
not." 

"But  you  did  know  all  this  once." 
"It  has  vanished,  and  I  am  a  mere  igno 
ramus.     This  here  eddication  business  is  no 
use.     Why  should  I  even  try  to  talk  gram 
ma  tical-like    any    more?      I    won't,    nohow." 

But  before  the  moon  had  risen  that  even 
ing  I  did  two  things.  First,  I  notified  the 
officials  of  the  Buncombe  County  Library 
Club  that  I  would  be  unable  to  speak  on 
education  to  them.  I  would  merely  read  a 


"BOOK-LEARNING"  169 

paper  on  Christopher  Marlowe.  Then  I 
found — in  the  wastebasket,  where  I  had 
scornfully  cast  it  the  day  before — an  adver 
tisement  of  a  prominent  correspondence  school. 
There  was  a  sheet  of  paper  with  a  list  of  all 
the  subjects  they  teach — three  hundred  or 
more  of  them.  They  were  arranged  in  order 
of  the  alphabet  with  a  little  space  opposite 
each  subject,  so  you  could  check  that  branch 
of  learning  in  which  you  wish  to  become  pro 
ficient.  I  checked  every  one  of  them,  from 
archery  down  to  zoroastrianism,  and  sent  it 
to  them  with  a  remittance. 

"There!"  said  Pratt,  putting  down  the 
paper,  "what  do  you  think  of  that  sort  of 
thing?" 

He  was  pale  with  indignation. 

"Sayles,"  remarked  Crerar,  "if  you  don't  stir 
that  Rabbit  faster,  she'll  be  all  full  of  lumps." 

Other  answer  was  there  none. 


CHAPTER  IX 


"Librarians,"  began  Sayles,  at  the  next 
meeting,  "do  not  have  to  wander  far  abroad 
for  secret  and  mystic  books.  They  have  hun 
dreds  of  them,  close  at  hand." 

"What  are  they?"  someone  asked. 

"Common  and  ordinary  books,"  he  replied. 
"They're  made  secret  and  mysterious  by  the 
people  who  want  them  but  won't  say  so; 
by  the  people  who  desire  to  find  out  some 
trifling  fact  or  other,  but  refuse  to  tell  the 
librarian  what  that  fact  is.  Listen  and  you 
shall  hear.  The  touching  little  drama  which  I 
am  going  to  read  is  not  only  founded  on  fact, 
—  it  is  fact,  for  at  least  six  storeys  above  the 

ground.     If  Bronson  will  cease  playing  'The 

170 


Maiden's  Prayer'   on   that   discordant  piano, 
— thanks." 

The  scene  is  the  reference  and  reading  room 
of  the Public  Library.  The  reference  libra 
rian,  Mr.  Fernald,  is  at  the  desk.  Thirty  or 
forty  readers  at  the  tables.  There  enters  a 
confused  looking  man,  with  the  collar  of  his 
overcoat  turned  up.  He  gazes  around  him 
with  unfocussed  eyes,  and  finally  makes  for 
Professor  Sears,  who  is  engaged  on  his  great 
work  "The  Moons  of  Mercury,"  behind  two 
enormous  heaps  of  books.  The  man  gives 
the  professor  a  slight  jab  in  the  armpit  with 
his  thumb,  and  then  addresses  him. 

The  Man:  Are  you  the  feller? 

The  Professor:  Hrrumph-yik?  (He  utters 
this  in  the  tones  of  a  hyena,  which  is  not 
exactly  angry — merely  surprised  and  irritated.) 

The  Man:  Say,  you're  the  feller,  ain't  yer? 

(The  professor  rapidly  traverses  forty-seven 


172  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

million  miles  of  space,  and  lands  abruptly  in 
the Public  Library.) 

The  Professor:  No,  sir,  I  am  not  the  feller. 
What  do  you  want? 

The  Man:  She  (pointing  over  his  shoulder 
with  his  thumb)  told  me  I'd  see  a  feller  in 
here  who'd  tell  me  'bout  these  books,  an'  I — 

The  Professor:  You  want  to  see  that  young 
man  at  the  desk. 

The  Man:  Oh! 

(The  professor  slides  quickly  back  again 
across  the  interplanetary  distances,  and  leaves 
the  man  staring  at  Fernald.  Finally  he  ad 
vances  to  the  desk.) 

The  Man:  Say,  are  you  the  feller? 

(Mr.  Fernald,  being  a  paid  public  servant 
has  not  Professor  Sears'  privilege  of  denying 
that  he  is  the  feller.  He  evades  the  question, 
however,  by  asking  in  what  he  feels  is  a  bar 
gain-counter  manner,  the  question:  "Is  there 
something  I  can  do  for  you?") 


???  i73 

The  Man:  Why,  say — she  (business  with 
thumb)  told  me  I'd  find  a  feller  here  who'd  tell 
me  'bout  some  book  in  here — (he  pauses). 

Fernald  (encouragingly):  Yes, — what  book 
is  it? 

The  Man:  Why — (he  looks  around  the  room) 
Gee!  you  got  a  lot  of  'em  here,  ain't  yer? 

Fernald:  About  two  thousand. 

The  Man:  Is  that  so?  Two  thousand! 
Gosh!  (He  pauses  again,  overcome  by  the 
stupendous  idea.  Then  a  smile  begins  to 
play  over  his  features.  A  delicious  joke  has 
occurred  to  him.  He  pokes  Fernald  in  the 
ribs, — roguishly,  and  delivers  himself  of  the 
jeu  d'esprit.) 

The  Man:  An'  say,  I  s'pose  you've  read 
'em  all, — hey?  (He  throws  back  his  head 
and  guffaws  at  the  originality  of  this  side- 
splitter.  Mr.  Fernald  does  his  best  to  smile, 
but  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  makes  a  poor 
attempt.  Eleven  hundred  repetitions  of  this 


174  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

jest  in  the  past  three  years  have  somewhat 
dulled,  for  him,  the  keen  edge  of  its 
wit.) 

Fernald:  No;  I  haven't  read  all  of  them. 

The  Man:  No?  Oh,  I  guess  you  have.  (He 
seems  to  have  decided  to  regard  Fernald  as 
a  marvel  of  erudition.  He  chooses  to  believe 
that  Fernald,  in  denying  that  he  has  perused 
the  hundred  and  sixty  volumes  of  "Notes  and 
Queries,"  the  hundred  and  thirty  volumes  of 
"War  of  the  Rebellion  Records,"  and  the 
twelve  encyclopaedias  which  form  a  small 
fraction  of  the  books  in  the  room,  is  merely 
affecting  undue  modesty.) 

The  Man:  I  guess  you  have.  Say — this 
is  'bout  all  the  books  you've  got  in  the  liberry, 
ain't  it? 

Mr.  Fernald:  Oh,  no.  There  are  nearly  two 
hundred  thousand  in  the  stack. 

(The  Man's  expression,  if  he  put  it  into 
words,  would  be:  "You  tell  that  to  the 


???  i75 

marines!"  The  corners  of  his  mouth  stretch, 
and  he  wags  his  head.  He  concludes,  however, 
that  it  is  only  the  pardonable  exaggeration  of 
a  loyal  employee — the  sort  of  estimate  that 
one  expects  from  a  campaign  manager  be 
fore  election.) 

Fernald:   There   is   some   book  you   want? 

The  Man:  Oh,  yes.  Say,  I  s'pose  you've 
got  all  kinds  of  Jem  here? 

Fernald:  Reference  books,  mostly.  Cy 
clopaedias  and  dictionaries,  you  know,  and 
all  that  sort.  All  the  fiction  and  general 
literature  are  out  there  in  the  delivery  room, 
or  rather,  in  the  stack  just  above  it. 

(The  Man  looks  at  Fernald  in  a  manner 
that  shows  the  latter  that  he  has  been  in 
dulging  in  too  technical  language — that  such 
terms  as  "reference  books/'  "fiction,"  "general 
literature"  convey  no  more  meaning  to  his 
interlocutor  than  would  1 1  neo-Platonism, ' ' 
"abracadabra,"  and  "feudal  suzerain."  He 


176  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

resolves  to  be  less  technical;  also  to  find  out, 
if  possible,  what  the  Man  wants.) 

Fernald:  What  book  do  you  want  to  see? 

The  Man  (at  last  exposing  his  secret) :  Well — 
why — why — I  don't  know  exactly. 

Fernald  (realizing  that  he  is  in  for  a  course 
of  Sherlockery) :  Is  there  something  you  wish 
to  find  out?  Some  question  you  want  an 
swered? 

The  Man:  Well — yes — there  is. 

Fernald  (trying  the  frontal  attack,  like 
General  Buller) :  What  is  it? 

The  Man:  Er — um — er — why,  yer  know, 
I  hate  to  put  you  to  all  this  trouble,  yer 
know. 

Fernald:  No  trouble  at  all — it's  what  I'm 
here  for. 

The  Man:  Is  that  so?  You  just  set  here 
an '  let  folks  ask  yer  questions? 

(Fernald  indicates  that  that  describes  part 
of  his  duty.) 


???  i77 

The  Man:  Why,  say,  that's  great. 

(Another  pause.) 

Fernald:  Now,  if  you'll  tell  me  just  what 
you  want  to  find — 

The  Man:  I  tell  yer,  young  feller,  you  jes' 
give  me  one  o'  these  here  books,  an'  maybe 
I'll  run  right  across  it,  first  thing.  (He  waves 
his  hand  towards  three  volumes  on  geology 
which  happen  to  be  lying  on  the  desk.) 

Fernald:  Those  are  about  geology — is  that 
what  you  want? 

The  Man:  Huh?  No,  no — jes'  let  me  take 
a  dictionary,  if  you've  got  one. 

(The Library  is  in  possession  of  one  of 

these  rare  works,  and  Fernald  leads  the  man 
to  it.  He  hoists  it  upon  a  table,  and  sits 
down.  Fernald  returns  to  the  desk,  for  a 
lady  has  entered  the  room,  and  stands  waiting 
for  the  librarian.) 

The  Lady:  Is  this  Mr.  Fernald?  Oh, 
how  do  you  do?  I  am  Mrs.  Smith,  you 


178  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

know,  Mrs.  Pomfret  Smith.  My  husband 
has  just  been  elected  a  trustee  of  the  library, 
you  know?  Yes.  Dear  me!  This  room  looks 
so  changed  since  Mr.  Akers  was  here,  I  do 
miss  him  so  much.  He  just  knew  everything 
— oh,  he  was  lovely.  He  used  to  help  me  so 
much  about — er,  about  the  books,  you  know. 
But,  well  (she  sighs)  perhaps  you  can  do  it. 
First  (she  raises  one  finger  impressively)  have 
you  got  any  plays  by  Menelik? 

Fernald  (making  the  correction  as  unob 
trusively  as  possible):  Maeterlinck?  Oh,  yes; 
not  in  this  room,  though.  "The  Blue  Bird," 
"Pelleas,"  and  so  on,  those  are  what  you 
want? 

Mrs.  Smith:  No — Menelik.  (She  is  very 
firm  about  it.) 

Fernald:  Maeterlinck  is  the  playwright, 
I  think.  Menelik  is  the  Emperor  of  Abys 
sinia,  isn't  he?  Or  he  was  until  he  died. 

Mrs.    Smith:   That   is   the   one   I   mean — 


???  179 

Menelik.  He  was  Emperor  of  Abyssinia — 
— I  know  him — he  used  to  wear  a  thing  like 
a  beanpot  on  his  head. 

Fernald:  I  don't  believe  we  have  any  plays 
by  him.  I  never  heard  that  he  wrote 
any. 

(Mrs.  Smith  smiles  pleasantly,  as  one  who 
should  say,  "Live  and  learn,  young  man,  live 
and  learn.") 

Mrs.  Smith:  Oh,  I'm  sure  he  did,  for  Mrs. 
Crumpet  told  me  I  must  be  sure  and  bring 
Menelik's  plays  to  the  next  meeting  of  the 
Twenty-Minute  Culture  Club.  She  would 
never  make  a  mistake  about  that.  And  I've 
seen  a  picture  of  Menelik  in  the  Ladies'  Home 
Journal,  with  an  appreciation  of  him  by  Mr. 
Bok.  He  had  on  the  beanpot  thing  in  the 
picture — Menelik  did,  I  mean — not  Mr.  Bok, 
of  course. 

Fernald:  Well,  I  will  look  in  the  catalogue — 
but  I  am  quite  sure  there  is  nothing  of  the 


i8o  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

sort.  (He  goes  through  the  form  of  looking, 
remembering  that  although  there  are  some  men 
so  wise  that  they  can  say  what  books  do  exist, 
there  is  none  who  can  be  sure  what  books  do 
not  exist.  If  someone  insisted  on  having 
a  book  on  old  blue  china  by  Jack  the  Ripper, 
past  experience  has  taught  him  the  wisdom 
of  having  a  look  in  the  catalogue  before  com 
mitting  himself  finally.) 

Fernald:  We  have  some  books  about  the 
Emperor  Menelik  and  his  country — but  noth 
ing  else.  Are  you  sure  it  is  not  Maeterlinck? 
Let  me  send  for  some  of  his  plays,  and  you 
can  look  at  them,  and  see  if  they're  what 
you  wish. 

Mrs.  Smith:  Oh,  no,  you  must  be  mis 
taken!  Why,  my  husband's  brother-in-law 
was  the  first  man  to  take  a  sewing  machine 
to  the  court  of  the  Emperor  Menelik.  I've 
heard  my  husband  tell  about  it  a  great  many 
times.  He  is  now  Ambassador  to  Vienna,  you 


know.  By  the  way,  how  much  does  an  am 
bassador  get? 

(Fernald  consults  a  book,  and  informs  her 
about  the  salary  of  the  Ambassador  to  Austria.) 

Mrs.  Smith  (looking  over  his  shoulder): 
Why,  that  says  Silas  P.  Bagsworthy! 

Fernald:  Yes;  he's  Ambassador  in  Vienna — 
isn't  that  your  brother-in-law? 

Mrs.  Smith:  Certainly  not — his  name  is 
William  Slump.  But  that  book  must  be 
wrong.  I'm  sure  he  is  an  Ambassador. 

Fernald:  Let  me  see,  here's  the  index. 
Slump — yes — page  1604 — yes — he  is  consul 
at  Porto  Lorenzo,  and  he  draws  a  salary  of 
$1800  a  year. 

Mrs.  Smith:  What?  Why,  I've  been  telling 
everybody  he  is  an  Ambassador.  Oh,  that 
book  must  be  wrong!  I  certainly  shall  continue 
to  say  that  he  is  the  Ambassador — I  wouldn't 
trust  that  book  for  an  instant.  I  never  heard 
of  Porto  Whatsitsname. 


182  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

Fernald  (smiling):  This  is  the  Government 
register. 

Mrs.  Smith:  Oh!  well — got  out  by  some 
political  opponent,  I  suppose.  But  you 
haven't  got  me  the  plays  by  Menelik. 

Fernald:  I  don't  believe  I  can — I  assure 
you  that  there  are  no  such  plays. 

Mrs.  Smith:  Very  well,  I  shall  have  to 
go  back  and  ask  Mrs.  Crumpet  about  it 
again.  But  I  do  wish  Mr.  Akers  were  here! 
(Exit.) 

The  Man  (staggering  to  the  desk  with 
the  dictionary  in  his  arms):  Say,  young  feller, 
let  me  have  another  o'  these  here  dictionaries, 
will  yer?  It  ain't  in  this  one. 

Fernald:  If  you'd  tell  me  just  what  you 
are  hunting  for,  I  might  save  you  a  lot  of 
trouble. 

The  Man:  Oh!  I'll  have  it  in  half  a  shake— 
I  pretty  near  found  it  in  that  one.  (He 


???  i83 

gets  another  dictionary  and  retires  with 
it.) 

A  Little  Girl  (aged  nine) :  Mister,  please  let 
me  see  the  American  Journal  of  Ar — of  Archy 
— of  Archy olollollol — ogy,  will  you,  please? 

Fernald:  The  American  Journal  of  Archae 
ology?  What  on  earth  do  you  want  with  that? 
You  wouldn't  like  it.  Why  don't  you  go 
over  to  the  children's  room  and  ask  Miss 
Larkin  to  give  you  something  to  read? 

The  Little  Girl:  I  have  been  over  there; 
she  said  I  was  to  come  over  here  and  you'd 
gimme  the  American  Journal  of  Archyolololol- 

Fernald  (hastily):  What  do  you  want  it 
for? 

The  Girl:  My  teacher  in  school  said  we  was 
to  all  read  a  piece  in  it. 

(Fernald  knowing  something  of  the  wonders 
of  modern  education,  gets  the  magazine,  and 
looks  it  over.) 

The  Girl:  That's  the  piece.     (It  is  called 


184  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"Some  Post  Dravidian  Moraines  in  Xitixipitil," 
by  Dr.  Max  Schlippenschlapper.  He  looks 
to  see  if  there  are  any  words  in  it  which  he 
can  understand,  but  finds  none.  The  little 
girl  takes  the  magazine  and  holds  it  open  in 
front  of  her,  while  she  sits  at  a  desk,  for  the 
next  half  hour.  Occasionally  she  turns  a 
page.) 

The  Man:  Say,  I  can't  find  it  in  this, 
neither.  (He  is  plainly  irritated  now — quite 
vexed  with  Fernald  for  wasting  his  time  in  this 
fashion.) 

Fernald:  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  it  is? 
Perhaps  you're  looking  in  the  wrong  book. 

The  Man:  Well,  this  is  it.  (He  looks  over 
his  shoulder  to  make  sure  that  he  is  not  over 
heard.  Observing  no  eavesdroppers,  he  con 
tinues  in  a  whisper)  Why,  yer  see,  there  were 
two  or  three  of  us  fellers  last  night  got  talkin' 
'bout  John  D.  Rockefeller,  an'  we  wondered 
what  his  middle  name  is.  What  does  D. 


stand  for — is  it  David  or  Daniel  or  what? 
D'ye  know? 

Fernald:  No;  but  this  book  does.  (He 
picks  up  a  fat,  red-covered  volume  from  his 
desk,  and  in  five  seconds  the  man  is  in  pos 
session  of  the  priceless  information — for  which 
he  has  been  hunting  for  three-quarters  of  an 
hour.) 

The  Man:  Say,  it  didn't  take  you  long,  did 
it?  Say,  I  wish  I'd  put  it  right  up  to  you 
in  the  first  place. 

Fernald:  So  do  I. 

Professor  Sears  slowly  advances. 

Professor  Sears:  Now,  I'm  going.  Don't 
let  anyone  disturb  those  books  on  the  table, 
and  I  want  you  to  keep  these  at  the  desk  for 
me.  I'll  be  back  again  to-morrow.  I  have 
been  waiting  thirty  minutes — thirty  minutes 
by  my  watch — to  get  a  dictionary  to  look 
up  a  derivation,  but  that  person  has  had 


i86  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

them  all  to  himself.     No,  sir,  I  cannot  wait 
now — I  have  to  keep  an  engagement. 

Mrs.  Pomfret  Smith  (suddenly  entering): 
Why  now,  it  is  Maeterlinck's  plays  I  wanted 
after  all;  Mrs.  Crumpet — I  met  her  just  down 
the  street — says  so.  I  just  knew  it  was  Maeter 
linck  all  the  time.  I  do  wish  I  could  have  got 
them  the  first  time — then  I  wouldn't  have  had 
to  make  two  trips.  You'll  get  them  for  me 
right  away,  won't  you,  Mr.  Fernald? 

"Speaking  of  reference  librarians,"  said 
Tilden,  "I  cut  this  out  of  a  paper  the  other 
day.  It  is  called: 

THE  REFERENCE   LIBRARIAN 

At  times  behind  a  desk  he  sits, 
At  times  about  the  room  he  flits, — 

"I  think  I  recognize  it,"  remarked  Lenox, 
with  a  smile,  "I  wrote  it  myself." 


???  187 

"You  did  what?"  said  Sayles.  "/  wrote 
that!" 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen!  Let  us  have  no 
bloodshed,"  observed  Tilden.  "Ryerson,  do 
you  know  who  wrote  it?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Ryerson,  "I  did.  But 
I  am  not  stuck  up  about  it.  It's  a  mere 
trifle.  Read  it,  if  you  like,  Tilden." 

Tilden  began  again. 

THE  REFERENCE  LIBRARIAN 

At  times  behind  a  desk  he  sits, 
At  times  about  the  room  he  flits, — 
Folks  interrupt  his  perfect  ease 
By  asking  questions  such  as  these: 
"How  tall  was  prehistoric  man?" 
"How  old,  I  pray,  was  Sister  Ann?" 
"What  should  one  do  if  cats  have  fits?" 
"What  woman  first  invented  mitts?" 
"Who  said  'To  labor  is  to  pray?" 
"How  much  did  Daniel  Lambert  weigh?" 
"Don't  you  admire  E.  P.  Roe?" 
"What  is  the  fare  to  Kokomo?" 


i88  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"Have  you  a  life  of  Sairy  Gamp?" 
"Can  you  lend  me  a  postage  stamp?" 
"Have  you  the  rhymes  of  Edward  Lear?" 
"What  wages  do  they  give  you  here?" 
"What  dictionary  is  the  best?" 
"Did  Brummel  wear  a  satin  vest?" 
"How  do  you  spell  'anaemic/  please?" 
"What  is  a  Gorgonzola  cheese?" 
"Who  ferried  souls  across  the  Styx?" 
"What  is  the  square  of  96?" 
"Are  oysters  good  to  eat  in  March?" 
"Are  green  bananas  full  of  starch?" 
"Where  is  that  book  I  used  to  see?" 
"I  guess  you  don't  remember  me?" 
"Haf  you  Der  Hohenzollernspiel? " 
"Where  shall  I  put  this  apple  peel?" 
"Ou  est,  m'sieu,  la  grande  Larousse?" 
"Dos  you  say  ' two-spot/  or  'the  deuce'?" 
"Come,  find  my  book, — why  make  a  row?" 
"A  red  one, — can't  you  find  it  now?" 
"Please,  which  is  right:  to  'lend'  or  'loan'?" 
"Say,  mister,  where's  the  telephone?" 
"How  do  you  use  this  catalogue?" 
"Oh,  hear  that  noise!  Is  that  my  dog?" 
"Have  you  a  book  called  'Shapes  of  Fear'?" 
"You  mind  if  I  leave  Baby  here?" 


CHAPTER  X 

IMMORAL  BOOKS 

"That,"  remarked  Crerar,  "gives  you  the 
librarian's  view  of  the  public.  It — " 

"View  of  some  of  the  public,"  Sayles  in 
terrupted. 

"Well,  some  of  them,  then.  Here  is  a  view 
of  some  librarians, — and  other  people." 

And  he  read: 

IMMORAL  BOOKS 

It  is  not  just  to  deride  the  feeling  of  gloom 
which  overhung  the  Public  Library  of  Podgett. 
It  was  genuine,  sincere,  profound.  One  of  its 
brighter  lights  had  been  dimmed,  so  they 
thought;  one  of  its  spotless  lambs  had  griev 
ously  wandered. 

189 


THE     SECRET     BOOK 

Miss  Larkin  knew  the  worst  as  soon  as  her 
assistant,  Miss  Hanway,  appeared  in  the 
librarian's  private  room. 

"Is  he— ?"  she  began. 

"Yes,"  said  the  assistant,  choking  a  little, 
"I  saw  him  putting  it  in  his  pocket  as  I 
came  into  the  room.  He's  in  there  now, 
reading  'Beautiful  Joe's  Paradise/  but  I'm 
afraid  it's  only  pretence.  .  .  .  He  was  show 
ing  it  to  Arthur  Bryant,"  she  added,  her 
voice  sinking  to  a  whisper. 

Miss  Larkin  rose.  There  was  a  glitter  in 
her  eye,  such  as  might  have  been  seen  in 
Cromwell's  on  the  morning  of  Pride's 
Purge. 

"Come  with  me,"  she  said. 

Miss  Hanway  followed  her  to  the  chil 
dren's  reading  room.  It  was  a  dull,  rainy 
day  during  the  Christmas  vacation,  and  the 
room  was  more  than  half  full  of  readers. 
Well-behaved  little  girls  were  demurely  read- 


IMMORAL     BOOKS  191 

ing  Miss  Alcott's  and  other  admirable  books 
at  the  various  tables.  A  few  boys  were 
scattered  here  and  there.  One  of  them,  in 
the  act  of  hurling  some  projectile  at  another 
boy  in  a  distant  corner,  sank  back  into  his 
seat,  as  the  two  ladies  entered,  and  hurriedly 
became  engrossed  in  a  copy  of  Poole's  Index. 
Two  other  very  small  boys,  who  were  in  a 
genuine  state  of  giggles  over  a  "Brownie" 
book,  subsided,  and  tried  to  keep  their  laugh 
ter  inside. 

Miss  Larkin  went  rapidly  to  a  table  where 
there  sat  two  boys.  One  of  them  was  fat  and 
good-natured  in  appearance,  though  his  hair 
was  considerably  disordered,  and  his  coat 
collar  was  turned  up.  The  other  was  quiet, 
pale,  and  furtive.  He  bent  his  eyes  on  his 
book,  while  the  fat  boy  looked  up  with  a 
genial  smile.  He  was  chewing  gum. 

"Horace,"  said  the  librarian,  "I  want  you 
to  give  me  what  you  have  in  your  pocket." 


192  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

Her  voice  was  kindly,  but  it  hinted  at  a 
considerable  amount  of  determination. 

"Me?"  said  Horace,  with  a  widening  and 
ever  pleasant  smile. 

"Yes.    And  be  quick!" 

Horace  reached  into  his  pocket  and  drew 
forth  a  small  image  of  a  man,  cunningly  con 
structed  out  of  several  potatoes.  One  of  them 
— that  representing  the  head — had  been  partly 
peeled  to  allow  eyes,  nose  and  mouth  to  be 
drawn  on  its  surface  with  ink.  He  proffered 
this  interesting  creation  to  Miss  Larkin. 

She,  however,  disdained  it. 

"That  is  not  what  I  mean,"  said  she, 
keeping  her  hand  outstretched. 

Horace  tried  again.  This  time  he  produced 
a  tiny  corked  bottle,  which  held  a  solution 
of  gum  arabic — for  what  purpose  intended  it 
passeth  the  mind  of  man  to  declare.  Miss 
Larkin  refused  the  bottle  and  still  stood 
with  waiting  hand.  Horace  fished  out  a 


IMMORAL     BOOKS  [93 

cent,  flattened  by  a  railroad  train  which  had 
run  over  it,  two  empty  cartridges,  a  colored 
picture  of  Christy  Mathewson,  a  very  soiled 
handkerchief,  a  chocolate  mouse,  battered 
and  much  the  worse  for  wear,  six  sunflower 
seeds,  a  large  rubber  band,  a  harmonica,  a 
knife,  two  brass  keys,  a  Belgian  coin  of  the 
value  of  ten  centimes,  the  dial  of  a  watch 
without  the  rest  of  it,  an  object  which  seemed 
to  be  a  dried  bat's  wing,  a  large  button  on 
a  string,  a  small  mirror,  a  strip  of  slippery 
elm,  a  ball  made  out  of  tin  foil,  three  wizened 
chestnuts,  and  about  a  yard  of  copper  wire. 

This  really  admirable  collection,  which  must 
have  represented  the  patient  industry  of 
months,  and  which  needed  only  classification 
and  labels  to  form  the  nucleus  of  a  museum 
far  more  entertaining  than  the  average  one, 
was  laid  out  upon  the  table  for  Miss  Larkin's 
inspection.  But  she  remained  unsatisfied; 
her  features  did  not  relax. 


IQ4  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"He  put  it  in  his  inside  coat  pocket," 
whispered  Miss  Hanway. 

"Your  inside  pocket!"  said  the  librarian, 
pointing  one  finger  at  Horace's  chest. 

He  plunged  one  hand  into  that  pocket 
and  brought  out  a  white  mouse.  The  mouse 
had  evidently  been  awakened  from  a  nap, 
and  was  somewhat  annoyed.  Miss  Larkin 
did  not  flinch;  fear  of  mice  was  no  part  of  her 
character. 

"Put  that  mouse  back  in  your  pocket, 
Horace,  and  don't  ever  bring  him  here  again. 
It's  cruel  to  carry  them  about  in  your  pocket." 

"No'm,  it  isn't,  really.  He  likes  to  be  in 
there." 

"You  must  remember  what  I  said.  This 
is  no  place  to  bring  mice.  Now,  where  is 
that  book  you  showed  to  Arthur?  I  want 
you  to  give  it  to  me  immediately." 

Horace,  at  last  showing  some  signs  of  alarm, 
reached  around  and  from  a  pocket  in  the  rear 


IMMORAL     BOOKS  195 

drew  a  crumpled,  paper-covered  book.  It 
had  a  gaudy  cover,  in  colors. 

"Here!"  commanded  the  librarian,  snap 
ping  her  fingers. 

Horace  handed  it  to  her.  She  took  it, 
gingerly,  between  the  tips  of  her  thumb 
and  forefinger,  as  though  it  were  the  decaying 
carcass  of  some  poisonous  reptile  which  a  high 
sense  of  public  spirit  commanded  her  to  re 
move  before  it  spread  contagion  upon  her 
fellow  mortals. 

"Horace,  I  shall  have  to  let  your  aunt 
know  about  this!" 

"I  don't  care,"  said  the  thoroughly  fright 
ened  Horace — with  a  sullen  attempt  at  bravado. 

He  cared  a  great  deal.  He  left  the  library 
with  a  heart  of  lead,  and  wandered  in  gloom. 
He  wondered  if  there  were  ever  a  being  so  sin 
ful,  so  miserable  as  himself.  He  met  Tommy 
Cheney  and  Mike  O'Brien — two  notorious 
outlaws — and  with  them  went  and  "ran 


196  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

benders"  on  Davenport's  Pond,  and  got  one 
leg  wet  to  the  knee.  What  did  it  matter? 

He  did  not  go  home  at  noon  to  dinner. 
He  was  afraid  to  face  his  aunt,  and  her 
sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Buntin.  He  was  afraid 
not  to  go  home,  but  he  was  more  afraid  to 
go  than  to  stay  away.  Tommy  and  he  went 
down  to  Mr.  Fowler's  grocery  and  while  one 
of  them  engaged  the  clerk  in  pleasant  con 
verse,  the  other  "swiped"  eight  prunes  and  a 
soda-cracker  and  on  these  they  dined. 

Had  he  been  familiar  with  the  tragedy  of 
"Macbeth"  he  would  have  muttered  to  him 
self: 

I  am  in  blood 

Stept  in  so  far,  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 
Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er. 

But  he  did  not  know  "Macbeth"  and  so  the 
consolation  of  a  literary  allusion  was  denied 
him. 


IMMORAL     BOOKS  197 

The  afternoon  was  a  little  brightened  by 
the  pleasure  of  spending  three  hours  sliding 
down  Bassett's  Hill  on  Tommy  Cheney's 
double-runner,  in  company  with  the  owner, 
Mike  O'Brien,  and  two  other  boys.  But  he 
knew  that  the  dread  hour  of  reckoning  was 
only  deferred.  At  half-past  five  the  world 
was  in  darkness,  and  he  went  home,  devoutly 
wishing  he  were  dead. 

His  aunt  met  him  in  awful  silence.  Mrs. 
Buntin  sat  by  the  evening  lamp,  reading  the 
newspaper.  She  looked  upon  Horace  as  the 
priests  of  Moloch  might  have  looked  upon 
some  especially  inviting  infant  victim.  He  had 
been  in  the  house  only  a  minute  or  two  when 
his  aunt  began  to  weep.  This  was  worse  than 
ten  thousand  punishments.  He  did  not  expect 
a  licking;  his  aunt  usually  spared  the  rod. 
But  he  knew  that  she  did  not  let  his  misdeeds 
pass  without  some  penalty.  Instant  relega- 


igS  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

tion  to  bed,  without  supper,  was,  so  he  thought, 
the  probable  first  step  in  her  scheme  of  ret 
ribution.  That  it  would  be  only  a  first 
step,  he  felt  convinced.  This  crime,  with 
which  his  soul  was  seared,  was  so  much  deadlier 
than  all  the  rest  of  his  misdemeanors  put  to 
gether  that  he  could  not  fancy  any  punish 
ment  terrible  enough  to  suit  it.  Bed  for  the 
rest  of  the  vacation;  perhaps  for  the  rest  of 
his  natural  life;  and  nevermore  any  suppers, 
or  any  other  meals,  so  long  as  his  frame  should 
endure — it  would  be  something  like  that, 
he  had  thought.  But  this  sobbing  of  his 
aunt  was  even  worse. 

She  sank  into  a  chair. 

"Oh,  Horace!"  she  moaned,  "oh,  Horace! 
Reading  dime  novels!" 

Even  Mrs.  Buntin  began  to  sniff  a  little. 

Horace's  aunt  was,  in  many  respects,  a 
highly  sensible  woman.  Everyone  knows 


IMMORAL     BOOKS  199 

a  dozen  women  exactly  like  her.     Her  own 

reading  consisted  of  (i)  the  local  daily  paper; 

B 
(2)  the  Congregationalist  Observer;  (3)  Mrs. 

Barclay's  novels.  On  many  subjects  she  had 
strong  opinions,  and  these  were,  naturally; 
the  subjects  on  which  she  knew  nothing  what 
soever.  Certain  things  she  took  for  granted; 
accepted  ready-made  the  ideas  of  other  persons. 
She  uttered  the  dread  words  "reading  dime 
novels"  in  precisely  the  same  tones  in  which 
she  would  have  said  "  embezzling  trust  funds, 
smoking  opium,  and  murdering  widows  and 
orphans!"  Had  she  not  read  in  the  paper 
that  very  day  of  a  man  who,  standing  upon 
the  gallows  somewhere  or  other,  remarked 
that  he  had  been  started  upon  his  down 
ward  career  by  dime  novels?  Already  she 
thought  she  saw  Horace's  neck  enclosed  in 
the  noose.  Of  how  many  boys  did  she  read, 
every  week,  who  ran  away  to  fight  Indians, 
impelled  by  this  same  kind  of  literary  poison? 


200  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

As  she  had  never  in  her  life  read  nor  even 
seen  a  dime  novel — until  this  day — she  firmly 
believed  that  they  openly  advocated  murder 
and  running  away  from  home.  That  they  are 
frequently  merely  vapid  and  cheap,  filled  with 
the  same  kind  of  windy  morality  and  slush  as 
the  works  of  her  own  favorite  novelist,  and 
that  the  canons  against  which  they  offend 
are  those  of  art  rather  than  ethics,  never  for 
an  instant  occurred  to  her.  That  some  of 
them  are  perfectly  good  stories,  differing  only 
from  the  so-called  "respectable"  novels  in 
price  and  in  having  paper  instead  of  board 
covers,  was  a  thing  of  which  she  never  could 
have  been  convinced — so  strong  are  inherited 
ideas. 

She  believed  that  Horace  had  set  foot  upon 
the  road  to  hell,  and  so,  naturally  enough, 
she  wept. 

Horace,  weeping,  too,  was  presently  packed 


IMMORAL     BOOKS  201 

off  to  bed.  His  aunt  and  Mrs.  Buntin  set  out 
to  consider  his  parlous  condition.  Miss  Lar- 
kin's  letter  lay  before  them.  It  said: 

Dear  Madam — I  am  very  sorry  to  say 
that  I  found  Horace  reading  a  Dime  Novel 
today.  I  thought  of  course,  that  you  ought 
to  know  about  it.  I  send  you  the  Novel, 
with  this  letter,  and  with  it  I  am  also  send 
ing  a  thoroughly  good  and  safe  story  for 
boys,  highly  recommended  for  boys  who  wish 
exciting  tales.  This  one  is  by  no  means 
dangerous.  I  hope  that  you  will  induce  him 
to  read  it,  instead  of  the  other. 
Sincerely  yours, 

Letitia  Larkin. 

A  package  was  open  upon  the  table;  it 
contained  two  books.  Mrs.  Buntin  poked 
at  them  with  her  scissors. 

"Which  of  'em  do  you  suppose  is  the  dune 
novel?"  she  whispered. 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

She  put  on  her  spectacles. 


202  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"Let's  see.  This  is  'Luck  and  Pluck. 
Uncle  Sam's  Sam,  or  Working  for  the  Govern 
ment.'" 

She  exhibited  the  frontispiece,  which  showed 
several  men  rescuing  a  man  from  a  snowbank 
in  which  he  seemed  to  be  frozen. 

"And  this  is  'Treasure  Island.'" 

This  had  a  picture  of  men  fighting  behind 
a  stockade. 

"Oh    dear,    I'm    afraid    this    is    It.  ... 
Hat  tie,  did  you  ever  read  a  dime  novel?" 

"Land  sakes!  What  makes  you  ask  such  a 
question?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  but  you  had,  some 
where.  We'll  have  to  look  it  over.  .  .  . 
Mercy  on  us!  Listen  to  this!" 

She  had  opened  "Treasure  Island"  at 
random,  and  now  she  read  aloud:  "'One 
more  step,  Mr.  Hands,'  said  I,  'and  I'll  blow 
your  brains  out!  Dead  men  don't  bite,  you 
know,'  I  added,  with  a  chuckle.  .  .  .  Back 


IMMORAL  BOOKS  203 

went  his  right  hand  over  his  shoulder.  Some 
thing  sung  like  an  arrow  through  the  air;  I 
felt  a  blow  and  then  a  sharp  pang,  and  there 
I  was  pinned  by  the  shoulder  to  the  mast  .  .  . 
both  my  pistols  went  off — with  a  choked 
cry  the  cockswain  loosed  his  grasp  upon  the 
shrouds  and  plunged  head  first  into  the 
water.'" 

"Lizzie  Coker,  don't  you  read  me  another 
word  of  that  book!  I  shaVt  sleep  a  wink 
tonight  if  you  do!  How  people  can  write 
such  things — fightin'  and  murderin'!  It's 
awful!" 

"Ain't  it  terrible?   What  will  we  do  with  it? " 

"Put  it  right  into  the  kitchen  fire  this 
instant.  That's  what  I'd  do  with  it." 

Horace's  aunt  seemed  to  think  the  advice 
good.  She  took  Stevenson's  novel  in  the  fire 
tongs  and  carried  it  to  its  destruction.  When 
she  returned  Mrs.  Buntin  was  looking  at 
"Luck  and  Pluck." 


204  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"Listen  to  this,"  said  she,  "and  see  if  this 
isn't  real  nice!" 
She  read  aloud: 

CHAPTER    I 
SEEKING    A    DANGEROUS    ASSIGNMENT 

One  bright  afternoon  in  September  a  hand 
some,  bright-faced  youth  of  about  eighteen 
years  entered  the  building  in  which  the 
Bureau  of  Ethnology  has  its  quarters,  in  Wash 
ington,  D.  C.,  and  made  his  way  to  the  office 
of  the  chief  of  the  Bureau. 

The  chief  was  not  in,  but  one  of  the  em 
ployees  said  he  would  be  in  soon,  so  the  youth 
sat  down  to  await  the  man's  coming. 

Not  more  than  fifteen  minutes  had  elapsed 
when  the  head  of  the  Bureau  appeared,  and 
as  soon  as  he  had  taken  his  seat  at  his  desk, 
the  youth  arose,  and  approaching,  hat  in 
hand,  said: 


IMMORAL    BOOKS  205 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  are  you  Mr.  Wil 
son,  the  chief  of  the  Bureau  of  Ethnology?" 

The  man,  who  was  a  handsome,  alert- 
looking  gentleman,  looked  up,  and  gave  the 
youth  a  quick,  searching  look. 

"Yes,  I  am  Mr.  Wilson,"  he  replied,  pleas 
antly.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  youth  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket, 
and  tapping  it  with  his  finger,  said: 

"I  see  you  have  inserted  an  advertisement 
in  the  paper,  stating  that  you  wish  to  secure 
the  services  of  a  man  to  go  to  Alaska  and 
spend  a  winter  north  of  the  Arctic  Circle." 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I  do  want  a  man  who  will 
do  this.  What  of  it?" 

"This — I   wish   to   apply   for   the   place." 

The  youth  spoke  in  a  cool,  matter-of-fact 
tone. 

"You?" 

The  chief's  tone  was  one  of  surprise. 

"Yes,  I." 


206  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

The  youth  straightened  up,  threw  his  head 
back,  at  the  same  time  meeting  the  gaze 
of  the  man  unflinchingly. 

The  chief  did  not  say  anything  for  al 
most  half  a  minute,  during  which  time  he  did 
not  take  his  eyes  off  the  youth's  face,  and  then 
he  said,  in  a  kindly  tone: 

"But  I  advertised  for  a  man,  my  boy." 

The  youth's  face  colored  slightly,  but  he 
answered  in  a  firm,  manly  tone: 

"I  may  not  be  a  man  in  years,  sir,  but  I 
believe  that  I  am  a  man  in  most  other  re 
spects.  For  instance,  I  am  strong,  healthy, 
and  am,  I  think,  endowed  with  good  com 
mon  sense,  and  I  believe  that  I  could  do  what 
you  wish  done  as  well  as  a  man  twice  my  age." 

Mrs.  Coker  interrupted  the  reading  to  say: 
"Now  ain't  that  nice?    That  boy  is  so  po 
lite;   and   that   about   the   Bureau   of  What- 
youcallit  sounds  real  instructive!" 


IMMORAL    BOOKS  207 

Next  morning  Miss  Larkin  received  a  note 
from  Horace's  aunt.  It  informed  her  that 
she  had  burned  up  that  "horrid  Treasure 
Island  book,"  but  that  she  was  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  her  for  the  other,  which  seemed 
to  be  a  truly  moral  story.  Miss  Larkin  and 
her  assistant  went  into  executive  session  over 
this  news,  and  so  far  they  have  refused  to 
make  any  statement  for  the  press. 


CHAPTER  XI 
How  TO  WRITE  A  "BEST-SELLER" 

The  night  the  Club  met  at  Bronson's  I  was 
the  last  to  arrive.  As  I  came  in,  two  or  three 
of  the  men  hailed  me  with  a  question  about 
Lauriston.  Had  I  heard  from  him?  Where 
was  he? 

Now,  I  had  had  two  messages  from  Lauris 
ton.  One — a  post-card — written  the  day  after 
his  arrival  in  London  said,  merely:  "Sale 
postponed.  Have  hopes."  Then  I  had 
heard  nothing  for  two  or  three  weeks, — until 
this  morning.  Then  came  a  letter, — "Luck 
tomorrow,  sure."  That  was  all  there  was  in 
it.  I  knew  he  was  still  on  his  absurd  quest 
of  The  Secret  Book,  and  somehow  I  felt  un 
easy  about  him. 

208 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    209 

I  told  the  other  men  that  Lauriston  was 
probably  in  Paris  by  this  time,  and  that 
the  last  I  had  heard  of  him  was  from  London. 
Then  I  sat  down  to  listen  to  the  paper  which 
Lenox  was  preparing  to  read. 

"These  are  a  few  handy  hints,"  said  he, 
glancing  at  Crerar,  "on  how  to  be  a  novelist." 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A  "BEST-SELLER" 


That  famous  novelist,  Arthur  Douglas 
MacCarty,  has  electrified  the  Ezra  Beesly 
Free  Public  Library  by  his  visits.  The  li 
brarians  are  all  agog  over  the  presence  of  the 
celebrated  man.  His  greatest  success,  "The 
Mystery  of  the  Purple  Limousine,"  has  been 
at  the  head  of  the  list  of  best-sellers  for  nine 
months.  It  is  to  be  followed  by  "Your 
Money  or  Your  Wife!"  One  of  the  librarians, 
Miss  Van  Seckel,  has  made  some  interesting 
discoveries  about  him.  She  writes: 

"He  is  six  feet  tall — like  his  heroes — but 


2io  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

I  was  disappointed  in  his  red  hair,  and  to 
notice  that  he  wears  black  'sneaks.'  The 
first  day  I  saw  him  he  went  into  a  small 
study,  near  the  room  in  which  I  work.  A 
conversation  soon  began,  and  I  wondered 
with  whom  he  was  talking.  Then  I  thought 
he  was  talking  to  himself,  and  I  said:  'How 
interesting!'  But  it  soon  dawned  upon  me 
that  he  was  communing  with  the  charac 
ters  in  his  books,  either  those  in  his  past 
novels,  or  in  the  one  he  is  writing  now,  I  don't 
know  which.  He  has  written  forty-six  novels, 
according  to  'Who's  Who/  and  we  have  thirty- 
one  of  them  in  the  library.  Some  of  the  others 
aren't  considered  proper.  This  is  what  I 
heard. 

"Why,  good  morning,  Colonel.  I'm  pleased 
to  see  you!" 

"Suh,  I  am  overwhelmed  with  the  honah, 
suh!  Yo'  servant,  suh!" 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    211 

"Very  hot  today,  Colonel." 

"The  heat,  suh,  is  sholy  ve'y  enervating 
suh!  We  have  nothin'  like  this  in  Wilkes 
Caounty,  Geo'gah,  suh.  The  finest  climate 
in  the  world,  suh!" 

"So  I  have  heard  you  remark.  How  have 
you  been  spending  your  time,  Colonel,  since 
the  publication  of  'The  Southland's  Fairest 
Daughter'?  If  I  recollect  correctly  you  were 
killed  in  that  book,  at  about  the  twenty- 
second  chapter." 

"No,  suh.  At  Gettysburg,  suh.  Leadin' 
the  famous  charge,  suh — vice  Gen'ral  Pickett, 
suh,  temporarily  displaced,  for  the  purposes 
of  yo'  book." 

"Oh,  yes.    Well,  Colonel— er— " 

"Yancey,  suh.  I  am  one  of  the  famous 
Yanceys,  suh.  My  family  pride,  suh — " 

"Is  simply  inconceivable.  Like  Pooh-Bah's. 
I  remember." 

"Ve'y    true,    suh.     Well,   suh,   since    that 


212  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

regrettable  event,  I  have  been  pahssin'  the 
time  as  a  gentleman  should,  suh.  Sittin' 
on  the  po'ch  absorbin'  juleps  and  watchin' 
the  niggahs  at  wo'k  in  the  fields  of  cotton, 
suh.  My  niggahs  are  the  happiest  and  most 
contented  in  the  universe,  suh." 

"So  they  are.  They  gather  about  the  house 
at  sundown,  I  believe,  and  sing  plantation 
melodies." 

"Ev'ry  evening  suh.  From  seven-thirty 
to  eight  o'clock." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why  yours  is  not  a 
pretty  comfortable  existence." 

"Barrin'  twro  things,  suh,  it  is  ve'y  toll 
able.  Those  two,  however,  are  exceedin' 
hahd  to  bear,  suh." 

"Let  me  see — what  are  they?  The  defeat 
of  the  Southern  cause?" 

"Not  that,  suh.  That  only  happened  once, 
suh.  The  ones  to  which  I  refer,  suh,  are 
chronic,  suh.  They  are  first,  suh,  the  con- 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    213 

stantly  recurrin'  mortgage  on  my  estates, 
suh,  and  the  morbid  habit  of  my  daughters 
marryin'  damned  Yankee  officers,  suh!" 
"Yes,  yes,  I  recollect.  It  must  be  trying." 
"It  is  hell,  suh.  Fo'ty-five  times,  I  have 
lifted  that  mortgage,  only  to  be  saddled 
with  it  once  more,  by  gentlemen  of  yo'  pro 
fession,  suh.  I  have  pahted  with  the  family 
jewels,  suh;  I  have  sold  my  mother's  diamond 
necklace,  suh;  I  have  been  relieved  of  my 
difficulties  through  my  old  niggah  Ben  dis- 
coverin'  the  gold-plate  buried  at  the  time 
of  the  Revolution  by  my  grandfather;  I  have 
sold  oil  lands  to  a  Yankee,  suh;  and  I  have 
reached  the  bottomless  pit  of  degradation, 
suh,  by  goin'  to  wo'k  myself,  suh,  in  New 
Yo'k,  suh!  There  is  no  method  under  the  can 
opy  of  heaven,  suh,  that  I  have  not  employed 
to  lift  that  doggoned  mortgage,  suh!  I  am 
proud  to  say  that  it  has  nevah  been  fo'closed, 
suh.  Not  once,  suh.  Sometimes,  the  officers 


214  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

of  the  co't  have  been  at  my  ve'y  do',  suh, 
but  I  have  always  found  some  way  to  baffle 
these  houn's  of  the  law!  But  my  invention 
is  flagging  suh,  and  if  any  of  you  novelist 
gentlemen  sees  fit  to  place  another  mort 
gage  on  Yancey  Hall,  I  cain't  say  what  may 
happen,  suh!" 

"Well,  well,  I—" 

"That's  only  paht  of  my  woes,  suh.  The 
other  is  even  mo'  distressin'  yet,  suh.  I  refer 
to  the  outrageous  predilection  of  my  daughters 
for  Yankee  officers,  suh.  No  less  than  eighty- 
seven  of  these  young  ladies,  every  one  of  them 
the  apple  of  my  eye,  suh,  and  every  one  of 
them  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  whole 
South,  suh,  the  land  of  beautiful  women,  suh 
— no  less  than  eighty-seven  of  my  daughters 
have  fallen  in  love  with  one  of  the  invadin' 
ahmy,  suh,  with  one  of  the  Northern  vandals, 
suh.  Matrimony  has  followed  in  every  in 
stance,  suh,  despite  the  best  effo'ts  of  her 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    215 

brother  and  myself  to  have  her  bestow  her 
affections  upon  a  member  of  one  of  the  best 
families  of  Wilkes  Caounty,  suh.  It  is  true, 
suh,  that  I  have  always  discovered,  in  the 
last  chapter  but  one,  that  the  No'therner  is 
acshally  a  gentleman,  suh,  though  not  born 
in  Wilkes  Caounty,  suh.  He  has  always 
rendered  some  magnificent  service  to  my 
family,  suh.  Six  times  he  has  saved  Yancey 
Hall  from  the  depredations  of  his  own  men, 
suh,  and  my  daughter  from  insult — inva'iably 
at  the  cost  of  physical  damage  to  himself,  suh. 
Twice  he  has  saved  my  daughters  from  a 
mad  bull,  suh,  and  no  less  than  sixty-three 
times  he  has  preserved  my  only  son — a  cap 
tain  in  Lee's  ahmy,  suh — from  execution  as 
a  spy,  and  then  nursed  him  ve'y  tenderly 
through  a  long  illness,  while  a  prisoner  in  the 
No'thern  lines,  suh.  The  latter  is,  in  fact, 
his  favorite  method  of  endearin'  himself  to 
me,  suh.  But  conceive  my  feelin's  in  the 


216  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

precedin'  chapters,  suh,  befo'  the  character 
of  this  No'therner  is  made  manifest,  suh.  It 
is  ve'y  distressing  suh,  to  be  tormented  fo' 
two  hundred  and  sixty  pages  by  a  heavy 
mortgage  and  an  undutiful  daughter,  all  fo' 
the  sake  of  bein'  relieved  at  the  ve'y  conclu 
sion  of  the  book,  suh." 

"I  can  understand  that,  Colonel.  Well, 
I  must  see  if  something  can  be  done  about  it." 

"I  am  certainly  rejoiced  to  hear  you  say 
it,  suh.  If  I  am  to  have  the  honah  of  ap- 
pearin'  in  yo7  next  novel,  suh,  kindly  let  it 
be  with  my  estates  unencumbered,  suh,  and 
if  my  daughter  must  contract  an  alliance, 
let  it  be  with  a  Confederate  officer,  suh." 

"Probably  I  shall  not  need  you  at  all  in 
my  next  book,  Colonel,  but  if  I  have  to  call 
on  you  in  any  future  work,  I  will  remember 
what  you  say.  Still  I  fear  that  no  one  would 
recognize  you  unless  you  were  engaged  in  a 
struggle  to  maintain  your  patrimony.  As  for 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    217 

the  possibility  of  a  book  about  the  South 
in  which  the  heroine  did  not  marry  a  Nor 
thern  officer — I  doubt  if  any  publisher  would 
touch  it.  How  would  it  be  if  we  varied 
things  a  little  by  having  her  nurse  the  officer 
through  a  sickness?" 

"Not  entirely  unfamiliar  to  me,  suh.  To 
my  own  knowledge  she  has  seen  twenty- 
six  Yankees  through  devastatin'  illnesses,  suh. 
How  many  more  she  has  rescued  from  the 
grave  while  I  have  been  absent,  fightin'  in 
Virginyah,  I  cannot  say.  I  would  readily 
fo'go  the  pleasure  of  bein'  killed  in  battle,  suh, 
if  she  could  be  kept  away  from  the  Yankees 
altogether,  suh!" 

"We'll  see,  we'll  see.  Must  you  go?  Good 
bye,  Colonel." 

"Good-day,  suh,  good-day.  I  shall  return 
to  Yancey  Hall,  suh,  to  enjoy  it  while  it  is 
still  unmortgaged,  suh — though  I  shall  hardly 
dare  to  look  at  the  book-shops  on  the  way, 


218  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

suh,  fo'  fear  of  what  may  have  happened  in 
my  absence,  suh.  There  is  a  young  gentleman 
outside  the  do',  suh,  waitin'  to  see  you.  Good- 
day.  Yo'  servant,  suh." 

"Ask  him  to  come  in,  will  you  please, 
Colonel?  Thanks.  Good-by.  .  .  . 

"Well,  sir,  are  you  going  to  have  any  use 
for  me  in  your  new  book?" 

"Why — you  are  the  reporter,  are  you 
not?" 

"Yes,  the  reporter-detective.  Compara 
tively  new  character,  too.  Whenever  a 
mystery  has  been  committed  the  chief  of 
police  sends  for  me  right  away.  I  am  the 
one  man  in  New  York  to  whom  he  turns  to 
solve  the  problem  of  the  murdered  million 
aire  and  the  missing  scarabaeus.  Whenever 
there  is  something  so  very,  very  secret  that 
it  will  not  do  to  have  it  breathed  to  a  single 
human  being,  then  he  always  calls  for  me — 
the  star  reporter  on  the  Evening.  Comet. 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    219 

That's  the  way  to  keep  a  thing  wrapped  in 
impenetrable  gloom,  you  know — tell  it  to  a 
newspaper  reporter." 

"But  you  always  justify  his  confidence,  I 
believe." 

"Oh,  always.  And  I  solve  the  mystery, 
too.  While  the  detectives  stand  around  and 
say,  'Is  it  possible?'  and  'How  remarkable!' 
I  prove  that  the  murdered  millionaire  is  not 
the  millionaire  at  all,  but  his  butler,  who 
has  murdered  himself  out  of  spite,  and  then 
disguised  himself  so  that  the  millionaire's 
own  wife  and  children  never  noticed  the  differ 
ence.  He  has  on  a  wig,  you  see,  and  of  course 
the  detectives  and  police  wouldn't  notice  that." 

"And  they  didn't  observe  that  the  butler 
had  disappeared?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  did.  But  they  thought  he 
had  the  scarab." 

"Didn't  he?" 

"No,  of  course  not.     I  find  that,   in  the 


220  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

last  chapter,  on  the  drawing-room  mantel 
shelf.  The  house  has  been  searched  by  six 
expert  searchers,  but  of  course  they  hadn't 
looked  there." 

"Certainly  not.  They  were  busy  looking 
for  hollow  places  in  the  heels  of  the  butler's 
boots,  and  splitting  open  the  pages  of  the 
family  Bible." 

"That's  it.  And  I  am  always  well  rewarded 
for  my  cleverness,  you  know." 

"Taken  into  partnership  with  the  million 
aire?" 

"Yes;  and  married  to  his  only  daughter, 
a  girl  of  surpassing  beauty,  named  Muriel." 

"That's  quite  a  rise  from  being  an  every 
day  reporter." 

"Isn't  it?  Indeed,  the  only  mystery  that 
I  cannot  solve  is  why,  when  the  next  book 
comes  out,  I  am  back  on  the  old  job  again, 
at  nine  per." 

"Ah,  well,  we  novelists  cannot  always  fore- 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    221 

see  the  popularity  of  our  own  characters. 
Sometimes  we  saddle  them  with  a  wife  at 
the  end  of  the  first  book,  and  then  we  always 
have  the  devil's  own  time  getting  rid  of  that 
wife  for  future  adventures.  For  what  on 
earth  can  you  do  with  a  hero  who  is  a  married 
man  in  chapter  i?  Either  we  have  to  set  the 
adventure  in  the  second  book  back  to  a  time 
earlier  than  that  of  the  first  novel,  in  which 
case  the  hero  can't  get  married  at  all  in  the 
second  book  (and  that  is  a  grievous  handicap), 
or  else  we  have  to  start  in  with  a  flirtatious 
married  man.  And  that's  a  bad  thing,  you 
know,  for  that  cuts  out  the  patronage  of  the 
jeune  fille,  on  whom  we  depend.  It's  a  tough 
problem.  Who  are  these  gentlemen  with 
you?  They  look  familiar." 

"You  ought  to  know  this  one,  surely. 
Doesn't  his  look  of  general  vacuity  tell  you 
anything?" 

"There    is    something    about    the    absolute 


222  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

idiocy  of  his  countenance  which  seems  to 
remind  me — why,  surely  it  is  the  Professional 
Detective!" 

"That's  right.  Well,  I'll  let  you  talk  it 
over  between  yourselves.  Good-by." 

"Good-by — Well,  Mr.  Detective,  are  you 
from  London?" 

"Paris  or  London  or  New  York — or  St. 
Petersburg,  Berlin  or  Vienna — it's  all  the 
same  to  me.  The  Bureau  de  Surete,  or 
Scotland  Yard,  or  Mulberry  Street.  Poe 
invented  me,  Garboriau  added  some  improve 
ments,  but  I  blossomed  into  my  fullest  de 
velopment  of  jack-assification  under  Conan 
Doyle.  A  host  of  American  novelists  have 
employed  me.  I  am  always  the  smartest 
man  in  the  Parisian  police,  or  the  keenest 
sleuth  at  'the  Yard/  or  the  crack-a-jack  of 
the  New  York  plain-clothes  men.  And  I 
sometimes  wonder  what  the  stupidest  man 
in  those  bodies  must  be,  and  how  he  keeps 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    223 

out  of  a  retreat  for  drivelling  idiots.  For 
I,  mind  you,  hardly  know  enough  to  come 
in  when  it  rains." 

"That's  true.  I  remember  all  about  you. 
You  have  a  hard  part  to  play.  You  are 
always  up  against  the  superhuman  amateur 
detective,  and  the  clever  criminal — and  you 
do  not  show  up  to  much  advantage." 

"Numb,  sir,  absolutely  numb.  Head  is 
solid  ivory,  you  see.  If  it  wasn't  for  my 
friend  here  I  do  not  know  how  I  should  get 
along." 

"Who's  your  friend?" 

"In  the  book  he's  the  friend  of  the  ama 
teur  detective.  The  Dr.  Watson  of  the 
piece.  Just  a  plain  galoot,  like  me.  Can't 
see  through  a  hole  in  a  wall.  We're  on  op 
posite  sides  while  the  story  is  on,  but  at  other 
times  we  train  together.  We  sympathize,  you 
know,  and  protect  each  other.  It's  soothing 
for  us  to  be  together  while  we  can,  for  so 


224  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

much  of  our  lives  is  spent  with  giant  in 
tellects,  where  we  are  not  at  an  advantage." 

"I  am  glad  to  have  seen  you,  Mr.  Detec 
tive — you  and  your  friend.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  I'll  have  to  call  on  you  now  or  not. 
Stop — isn't  that  one  of  your  associates  over 
there?" 

"That!  Sure;  that's  the  Scientific  Criminal." 

"Oh,  yes.  Fetch  him  over  here,  will  you? 
I'd  like  to  see  if  he's  got  anything  new  up 
his  sleeve — Ah,  professor,  how  are  you?" 

"Pretty  well,  for  an  old  man." 

"Professor,  got  any  new  crimes  today? 
Any  new  and  ghastly,  and  utterly  inexpli 
cable  ways  of  killing  people.  I'm  not  sure 
but  what  I  could  use  a  good,  up-to-date, 
scientific  murder  in  my  book." 

"Tee-hee-hee!  Here's  one  I  just  thought 
out.  What  d'ye  think  of  this?  Prominent 
man,  millionaire,  respected  citizen,  found 
in  his  bedroom,  in  front  of  the  window,  all 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    225 

burned  up.  Not  just  singed,  you  under 
stand,  but  regular  shrivelled  to  a  crisp.  Only 
identify  him  by  his  watch,  which  is  slightly 
melted,  but  still  recognizable.  No  fire  in  the 
room.  Everything  else  all  right.  How  did  it 
happen? " 

"Well,  how  did  it?  Get  hot  about  Roose 
velt?" 

"No,  no.  How  did  it  happen?  I  did  it. 
Yes,  sir,  humble  as  you  see  me  here,  I  did 
it.  And  I  can  prove  an  alibi,  too.  A  rock- 
ribbed,  pig-tight,  horse-high,  bull-strong  alibi. 
I  was  in  my  astronomical  observatory  all 
the  time.  But  of  course  it  breaks  down 
when  this  gentleman  here — where  is  he?  this 
reporter-detective  gentleman  gets  on  the  case. 
He  proves  that  I  unscrewed  the  small  end  of 
my  telescope  and  turned  it  round,  using  the 
reflector — big  lens,  you  know,  as  a  burning- 
glass,  and  focussed  it  on  old  money-bags 
while  he  was  looking  out  of  his  window,  and 


226  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

just  frizzled  him  up  like  a  spider  on  a  hot 
shovel." 

"Dear,  dear!  That  was  a  mean  kind  of 
trick.  What  made  you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  anything  you  like.  Old  grudge,  you 
know.  Stole  my  girl,  forty  years  ago,  and 
I  built  this  observatory  then,  and  waited 
patiently  every  i4th  of  May  (when  the  sun 
was  in  the  right  position)  since  that  date. 
He  hadn't  ever  come  to  the  window  at  the 
right  moment,  before.  Or  you  can  have  him 
the  perpetrator  of  some  injury  to  my  only 
daughter — golden-haired  angel,  you  under 
stand.  That  always  gets  'em.  Makes  the 
readers  glad  the  old  rascal  did  get  broiled, 
and  soothes  their  feelings.  Then  you  let  me 
down  easy — I  make  a  full  confession,  say  I 
would  gladly  do  it  again  to  any  such  ruffian 
and  monster  as  Hiram  J.  Hoskins,  and  that 
the  world  is  well  rid  of  the  brute.  I  retire 
to  my  laboratory,  drink  a  ptomaine  cock- 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    227 

tail — or  commit  some  other  nice  kind  of  a 
scientific  suicide — anything  not  messy — and 
that's  the  end  of  me.  What  do  you  think?" 

"It's  not  bad,  not  bad.  It  has  possibilities, 
I  really  believe.  But  it's  such  an  expensive 
sort  of  crime — building  that  observatory,  and 
doing  so  much  work,  when  you  might  have 
slipped  out  and  banged  him  over  the  head  some 
dark  night.  For  my  detective  would  have  got 
you  in  any  case — as  you  very  well  know." 

"Expensive,  expensive?  It's  no  more  ex 
pensive  than  the  time  I  poisoned  that  other 
old  duffer  with  the  bacilli  sandwich,  which 
it  took  nine  years  to  prepare,  and  experi 
ments  costing  hundreds  of  thousands  to  perfect. 
It's  no  more  expensive  than  the  time  I  im 
ported  the  only  living  specimen  of  the  pink- 
spotted  death's-head  serpent  from  the  island 
of  Zamboanga,  and  bribed  whatshisname's 
valet  to  put  it  in  his  master's  slipper.  It's 
no  more  expensive  than  the  time  I  bought 


228  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

all  the  real  estate  in  a  New  York  block,  and 
moved  all  the  people  out  except  one  man, 
in  order  to  blow  him  up  with  picric  acid. 
I  tell  you,  my  dear  sir,  these  scientific  crimes 
come  high,  and  they  always  will.  Of  course 
if  you  want  to  descend  to  little,  vulgar  knock- 
ings  on  the  head — why,  you  can  buy  them 
cheap,  as  you'll  have  to  do  when  your  royal 
ties  decrease.  I'll  be  going,  I've  no  time  to — " 
"Wait  a  minute!  wait  a  minute,  please, 
professor!  I  beg  your  pardon,  I've  no  in 
tention  of  letting  you  leave  me.  I'm  sure 
we  can  come  to  some  agreement.  Just  take 
a  seat  for  a  minute  or  two,  will  you?  I  must 
speak  to  this  magnificent  young  gentleman. 
Ah,  good  morning!  Mr.  Wentworth,  is  it  not?" 

"Jack  Wentworth.  Yes.  Although  I  am 
sometimes  known  as  Tom  Fairfax,  or  even 
Bob  Langworthy.  I  always  stipulate  for  a 
good  sounding  name.  I  am  the  typical 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    229 

college  man — as  you  see,  Mr.  MacCarty. 
I  am  almost  invariably  from  Harvard  or  Yale, 
though  I  have  been  known  to  stray  as  far 
as  Princeton.  There  are  one  or  two  things 
about  which  I  am  adamant.  First  and  fore 
most  I  must  be  captain  of  either  the  football 
team  or  the  Varsity  crew — preferably  of  both. 
That  keeps  me  rather  busy,  but  I  manage  it 
somehow.  What  would  the  girls  who  read 
about  me  think,  if  I  failed  to  be  elected 
captain  of  the  football  team?" 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Jack?" 

"It's  this.  Do  you  know  a  man  named 
Owen  Johnson?" 

"Slightly." 

"Well,  he's  gone,  and  written  a  college 
story,  and  left  me  out.  Cut  me,  in  favor  of  a 
man  who  is  on  the  team,  to  be  sure,  but  he 
isn't  captain,  and  his  team  actually  gets 
licked.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing 
in  your  life?  Why  I  have  bounded  on  to  the 


230  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

field  a  dozen  times,  in  my  career,  and  made 
the  winning  touchdown.  I  usually  carry  the 
opposing  fullback  in  my  arms,  as  well  as  the 
ball,  and  I  run  sixty  yards  with  them  both — 
all  the  rest  of  the  fellows  strung  out  behind, 
like  a  pint  of  peanuts  chasing  a  watermelon. 
The  illustrator  always  makes  a  nice  picture 
of  it.  Then  after  the  game  is  over,  I  walk  to 
the  campus,  or  the  yard,  with  the  prettiest 
girl  in  sight.  Some  football  players  would  be 
just  such  dubs  as  to  go  and  take  a  bath  and 
put  on  clean  clothes,  after  the  fiercest  game 
of  the  season.  But  I  don't.  I  don't  have  to. 
There  I  am — the  illustrator  always  gets  me — 
with  a  fine  blue  or  crimson  sweater  on,  and 
my  hair  neatly  parted.  She  has  a  big  bunch  of 
violets  or  Jacqueminots,  and  she  looks  up  at 
me  in  such  an  adoring  fashion.  She  can't  help 
it,  of  course.  It's  very  fine  of  me  to  make  the 
poor  girl  so  happy.  In  the  middle  distance 
you  can  see  all  the  rest  of  the  fellows,  led  by 


WRITING     A     "BEST-SELLER"    231 

the  president  of  the  university,  giving  the 
college  cheer  for  me.  But  I  don't  pay  any 
attention  to  them.  I'm  too  modest.  I  just 
look  down  at  her  and  say  that  it  was  nothing 
at  all.  Anyone  could  have  made  three  touch 
downs,  kicked  two  goals  from  the  field,  and 
played  the  whole  game  generally,  for  my  side, 
with  a  fractured  wrist,  a  broken  collar-bone, 
two  busted  ribs,  and  a  dislocated  hip.  That's 
what  I've  got.  But  I  don't  mention  it  to  her. 
She  must  know  nothing  about  it.  Now  and 
then  I  wince,  when  she  isn't  looking.  Just 
wince,  that's  all.  Because  if  I  let  her  know, 
she  might  want  to  call  a  doctor,  and  have  me 
sit  down  and  rest,  or  something.  Then  who 
would  carry  her  coat  for  her?  Sometimes 
when  I  am  captain  of  the  Yale  team,  the 
captain  of  the  Harvard  eleven  walks  up  from 
the  field  on  the  other  side  of  her.  That  makes 
a  nice  picture,  too.  He  has  on  his  football 
clothes,  and  if  I  have  black  hair,  he  has  yellow 


232  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

hair,  and  vice  versa.  In  choosing  football 
captains  both  universities  always  look  out  for 
that." 

"All  that  you  say  is  true,  Jack.  None 
should  know  that  better  than  myself,  who  have 
had  a  large  share  in  your  creation." 

"Very  well,  then — are  you  going  to  stand 
for  this  man  Johnson?  What  shall  I  do 
for  a  living  if  he  gets  his  way?  It  is  true  he 
puts  his  man  through  some  of  the  proper 
stunts,  gets  him  engaged  to  be  married  before 
he  is  out  of  college,  for  instance.  I  always  do 
that.  Usually  propose  to  her  on  Class  Day — 
looking  down  together  on  the  Japanese  lan 
terns  in  the  yard.  I  am  due  to  leave  for  New 
London  on  the  midnight  train  to  stroke  our 
crew  to  victory  next  day,  and  I  am  sure 
that  I  shall  do  it  much  better  if  she  says 
1  yes.'  She  always  does,  and  then  I  return 
to  my  disheartened  crew — probably  sour  be 
cause  their  captain  can  go  to  Class  Day — 


WRITING     A    "BEST-SELLER"    233 

and  then  we — or  rather  I — beat  the  other 
boat  by  eighty  lengths.  All  the  other  men 
in  our  boat  collapse  and  I  pull  it  in  alone." 

"I  know  your  manners  and  customs  well. 
You  needn't  worry  about  losing  your  occupa 
tion.  You  will  always  be  necessary  to  us, 
Jack.  From  Maine  to  Oregon,  from  Miss 
Lindsay's  Select  School  for  Girls  to  Mrs. 
Dunbar's  Academy  for  Young  Ladies,  wher 
ever  the  smell  of  fudge  arises  at  9  P.  M.  and 
bed-rooms  are  decorated  with  college  banners, 
you  are  believed  in,  my  boy,  and  fondly 
adored.  They  search  for  you  on  many  a 
campus,  and  though  they  find  you  not,  their 
faith  in  you  dieth  never.  Some  day,  they 
trust,  you  will  burst  upon  their  vision,  hand 
some,  athletic,  a  C.  D.  Gibson  fancy  come  to 
life.  They  see  athletes  who  are  not  beauties, 
and  beauties  who  are  not  athletes;  they  see 
real  football  players  ignominiously  taken  out 
of  the  game  for  a  mere  sprained  finger,  in- 


234  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

stead  of  proceeding,  as  you  would,  under  the 
handicap  of  six  mortal  wounds,  to  a  triumph 
ant  conclusion.  But  they  hope  on.  I  am  full 
of  lyric  feeling  when  I  consider  how  hopeful 
they  are.  Trust  me,  Jack,  trust  me  and  my 
fellow-novelists.  Trust  the  magazine  illus 
trators  and  the  poster  artists,  our  right  hand 
shall  forget  their  cunning  before  we  give  you 
up.  And  now,  so  long,  old  top;  these  ladies 
have  been  waiting  patiently,  and  I  must 
speak  to  them.  .  .  .  Good  afternoon,  madam! 
Look  out,  there  goes  a  table — well,  you  man 
age  that  hoop-skirt  wonderfully,  still  it  is  hard 
to  get  used  to  a  thing — " 

"Sir!  I  cannot  abide  coarse  remarks  in 
connection  with  my  apparel.  I  am  the  shrink 
ing  lady  of  Early  Victorian  times,  and  I  con 
sider  such  comments  not  only  superfluous,  but 
indelicate.  I  play  croquet  in  the  morning, 
and  I  droop  under  weeping  willows.  Some 
times  I  have  a  lap-dog,  and  I  have  a  tender- 


WRITING    A     "BEST-SELLER"    235 

ness  for  a  young  gentleman  with  Dundreary 
whiskers.  When  I  am  indoors  I  like  to  have 
some  painted  wax  fruit  for  a  background. 
Surely  there  is  an  air  of  languid  refinement 
about  me,  which  would  be  well  in  this  vulgar 
age.  I  do  not  swim,  nor  drive  a — what  do 
you  call  it?  a  motor  car,  thank  heaven,  but  I 
can  ride,  if  accompanied  by  a  suitable  cavalier, 
and  I  am  also  addicted  to  archery.  Have  you 
no  place  for  me  in  your  romance?  Anna 
Whelan  Betts  can  paint  me.  I  can  weep  over 
graves,  my  tears  flow  freely  at  the  slightest 
provocation,  and  my  swoons  are  considered 
exquisite  by  all  who  have  witnessed  them. 
I  have  a  small  casket  of  precious  letters,  over 
which  I  weep  if  need  be.  A  linnet  in  a  cage 
is  one  of  my  regular  accessories,  and  my 
small  sister,  if  her  services  should  be  required, 
would  of  course  wear  her  pantalettes,  and 
bring  a  pet  lamb.  May  I  hope,  sir,  to  re 
ceive  your  consideration?  I  will  retire  now — 


236  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

there  is  a — person,  a  menial,  evidently,  who 
seems  to  be  edging  in  this  direction.  I  should 
prefer  to  retire  before  she  steps  any  closer. 
Au  revoir." 

"Au  revoir,  madam.  .  .  .  Ah,  what  can 
I  do  for  you,  my  good  woman?" 

"Get  me  a  job  in  yer  new  book — that's 
what  yer  can  do  for  me.  You  know  me. 
I'm  the  Mysterious  Servant  Girl.  Wilkie 
Collins  was  fond  of  me;  Anna  Katharine 
Green  dotes  upon  me.  I  am  dark,  sullen, 
moody.  I  have  fits  of  temper.  So  do  other 
servant  girls,  I've  heard  tell.  But  I  do  more 
than  that:  I  fall  in  love  with  the  young  master, 
or  I  surprise  the  mistress  in  her  secret.  I 
disappear.  Lawyer-folks  and  p'licemen  try 
to  find  me.  I  am  the  only  one  who  saw  the 
old  marquis  murder  his  son,  or  else  I  saw  the 
wicked  lawyer  burn  up  the  true  will,  an' 
I  snatched  it  out  of  the  fire,  when  he  wa'n't 
lookin'.  I  know  the  real  secret  of  the  babies 


WRITING    A     "BEST-SELLER"    237 

who  were  changed  at  birth,  but  nothin'  will 
get  it  outer  me  till  the  end  of  the  last  chapter 
but  one.  I  am  devoted  to  the  young  mistress, 
and  I  am  too  smart  for  the  'tectives.  I 
usually  have  a  blow,  or  a  broken-heart,  or 
a  grouch.  They  say  I'm  goin'  outer  fashion, 
an'  bein'  robbed  of  my  livelihood  by  English 
butlers  and  French  shofers,  an'  the  likes  of 
them.  What  d'ye  say,  master?" 

"I  say  that  it's  half -past  five,  and  I  think  I 
shall  close  for  the  day.  I  shall  be  pleased  to 
see  all  you  ladies  and  gentlemen  here  tomorrow, 
or, — are  you  here?  Beg  pardon,  I'm  sure.  I 
must  speak  to  you.  I  think  I  recognize  one 
of  my  trump  cards.  Are  you  not — ?" 

"The  Athletic  Heroine.  Yes.  Call  me 
any  name  you  like, — I'm  usually  Bet  or  Bess, 
though  it's  quite  a  fad  to  call  me  Billy  or  Bob, 
or  some  other  boy's  name.  And  I'm  dead 
sick — I  mean  I  am  so  bored — with  the  whole 
business.  I  am  dying,  simply  dying  to  be 


238  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

named  Hermione  or  Gwendolen,  or  Ermin- 
trude.  Yes,  I'll  sit  down  in  the  most  com 
fortable  chair  you've  got — I  know  I  ought  to 
sit  on  the  table  and  swing  my  legs — oh,  dear, 
how  very  unladylike  to  mention  legs — my 
ideal  would  have  died  before  she'd  do  such  a 
thing.  She  just  simply  didn't  have  any  legs, 
the  dear,  sweet  creature.  Now  I'll  sit  here 
and  I  want  you  to  stand  over  me  and  fan  me 
and  pick  up  my  handkerchief  if  I  drop  it 
and  pay  me  compliments  and  write  poems 
about  me,  and  say  that  I  have  a  lily  white 
hand — I  know  it's  as  black  as  a  crow  with 
sunburn,  and — " 

"Why,  Bet,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Have  you  gone  crazy?  " 

"Sick  of  the  whole  shooting  match — oh, 
I  mean  so  ineffably  weary — of  this  athletic  pose. 
Do  you  realize  what  I  go  through?  Getting 
up  early  (I  hate  it)  and  taking  a  cold  bath  to 
begin  the  day.  Hate  cold  baths — they  make 


WRITING    A       'BEST-SELLER"    239 

me  shiver  and  they  turn  my  lips  blue.  But 
I  have  to  do  it,  so  you  and  the  other  novelists 
can  say:  'She  entered,  all  vibrant  from  the 
bath.'  This  bath  business  is  getting  run  into 
the  ground.  You  authors  are  so  set  on  assur 
ing  your  readers  that  your  heroes  and  hero 
ines  are  acquainted  with  the  use  of  the  com 
mon  or  domestic  bathtub,  that  you  keep  us 
in  soak  most  of  the  time.  Really  I'm  not 
vibrant,  at  all,  when  I  enter.  I'm  parboiled. 
And  I  don't  want  to  get  up  early.  I  want  to 
lie  in  bed  late,  and  have  a  warm  bath,  and 
breakfast  in  my  room.  Can  I  do  it?  No; 
you  rout  me  out  and  send  me  off  on  a  fiend 
of  a  horse  at  5  G.  M.  Then  after  break 
fast — all  I  really  want  is  coffee  and  rolls,  but 
you  stuff  beefsteak  and  all  kinds  of  disgusting 
things  into  me — then  tennis,  or  swimming, 
or  mountain  climbing,  or  something,  until 
night.  It's  all  right  for  those  who  like  it, 
but  I'm  tired  of  trying  to  be  Annette  Keller- 


240  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

man,  and  Teddy  Roosevelt,  and  May  Sutton 
and  Christobel  Pankhurst  rolled  into  one. 
And  I  want  to  have  some  pretty  clothes — 
look  at  this  horrid  khaki  skirt!  I  love  chocolates 
and  bonbons — do  you  let  me  have  any,  you 
stingy  old  thing?  No,  you  don't!  What  did 
you  make  me  say  in  'A  Girl  of  the  Open 
Air? 

"Somebody — oh,  I  know,  it  was  Reginald 
Van  Twinkle — and  he  was  a  dear,  too — he  wore 
clothes  that  were  perfectly  lovely,  and  I  would 
have  liked  to  marry  him,  instead  of  that  big, 
hulk  of  a  cowboy  you  gave  me  to — well,  he 
brought  me  a  perfectly  lovely  box  of  Mail- 
lard's,  and  I  was  dying  to  sit  right  down  and 
devote  myself  to  it.  But  did  you  let  me  have 
a  single,  solitary  piece?  Not  you.  You 
made  me  say — in  a  horrid,  sniffy  manner — 
'Oh,  I  never  touch  those  things.  You  can't, 
you  know,  if  you  want  to  keep  fit!'  Imagine 
a  girl  talking  like  that!  And  then  I  had  to 


WRITING     A     "BEST-SELLER"    241 

ride  off  with  that  nasty  brute  of  a  cowboy, 
and  leave  poor  Reggy  standing  there,  looking 
so  hurt!  Now,  I'm  just  going  to  stop  the 
whole  thing.  No  more  cold  baths,  no  vibrant 
business,  no  beefsteak  for  breakfast,  no  tennis, 
nor  swims,  nor  khaki  skirts.  No  cowboys: 
I  like  nice,  city  men,  who  take  good  care  of 
their  fingernails.  Why,  I've  suffered  enough 
from  surf-bathing  alone  to  turn  me  gray. 
I  don't  look  at  all  well  in  a  bathing  suit, 
anyhow.  Oh,  I  know  the  illustrator  shows  me 
poised  on  top  of  a  wave  that  would  make  me 
scream  if  I  saw  it  a  mile  off — but  I  hate 
getting  my  hair  wet,  and  as  for  those  hideous 
bathing  caps!  No,  sir;  I'm  going  to  be  lan 
guid.  I'm  going  to  recline  on  verandas. 
I'm  going  to  say  'La,  sir!'  I  don't  know  what 
'La'  means,  but  it  sounds  nice  and  die-away, 
and  Jane  Austeny.  I  may  even  swoon,  now 
and  then,  if  I'm  sure  my  gown  is  fixed  be 
comingly.  It  would  serve  you  right  if  I  took 


242  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

to  having  ' vapors'  (whatever  they  are)  like 
my  great-grandmother  in  Richardson's  time." 

"Why,  Bet— consider— " 

"Not  Bet,  sir!  How  dare  you  be  familiar 
in  the  presence  of  one  so  delicate?  La,  sir, 
how  you  do  fluster  one!  Miss  Ermintrude, 
sir!'' 


CHAPTER  XII 
OUT  or  THE  FOG 

When  Lenox  had  finished  reading  his  paper 
we  were  led  by  Bronson  into  the  dining-room. 
There  he  sacrificed  some  perfectly  good 
oysters  to  a  new  and  fantastic  recipe.  Brown 
bread  and  bottled  ale  (Newberry  enjoyed  it 
better  by  calling  it  "brown  stout")  helped  out 
the  tortured  oysters,  however,  and  the  supper 
served  the  highest  purpose  of  suppers:  it  made 
one  last  pipe  taste  especially  sweet. 

"Apropos  of  Lauriston  in  Paris,"  remarked 
Bronson,  when  we  were  back  in  the  li 
brary,  "I  have  some  advice  for  him  in  this 
poem.  It  is  a  good  poem, — I  wrote  it 

myself." 

243 


244  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

THE  BOOK-LOVER  IN  PARIS 

The  foolish  man,  Jt  is  he  who  takes 
His  way  along  the  Rue  de  Paix, 
Or  stands  bewildered  'mid  the  roar 
That  sounds  throughout  Rue  St.  Honore; 
Or  to  escape  the  city's  noise 
Doth  ride  or  drive  within  the  Bois, 
Or  seeks  relief  from  dirt  and  grime 
In  quarters  of  the  old  regime. 

Let  him  not  sit  with  pallid  cheeks 
Reading  in  the  Bibliotheques, — 
The  bargain  hunter,  shrewd  and  keen, 
Will  haunt  the  book-stalls  on  the  Seine. 
The  books, — they  are  not  always  bosh, 
That  you  encounter  au  rive  gauche. 
And  there,  at  least,  you  walk  at  ease 
And  smoke  and  stroll  along  the  quais, 
And  run  across,  as  like  as  not, 
A  volume  really  comme  il  faut. 

From  all  distractions  keep  aloof 
While  crossing  over  the  Pont  Neuf, 
Look  not  to  left  and  not  to  right, 
But  quickly  pass  L'lle  de  la  Cite. 


OUT     OF     THE     FOG  245 

'T  will  chance,  perhaps,  that  as  you  came 
You  stopped  and  gazed  at  Notre  Dame — 
But  tarry  not  for  priest  nor  verger, 
Ho!  for  the  realm  of  Henri  Murger! 
Where  'mid  the  book-stalls  you  may  search 
For  volumes  truly  tres  recherche. 


After  the  meeting  was  over,  I  walked  home 
alone.  My  thoughts  turned  constantly  to 
Lauriston.  There  seemed  to  be  some  fore 
boding  which  could  not  be  shaken  off.  It  was 
a  dismal  night, — foggy  and  dark,  and  the 
street  lights  burned  dully,  surrounded  by  a 
circle  of  blue.  Turning  the  corner,  just  be 
fore  reaching  my  house,  I  thought  I  caught 
sight  of  someone — a  hurrying  figure — crossing 
the  little  park  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

It  was  only  a  moment's  glimpse,  but  I 
could  have  sworn  the  figure  was  Lauriston's. 
He  looked  haggard  and  pale, — the  signs  of 
sickness,  or  some  unknown  horror,  were  written 
plainly  upon  his  face.  I  stopped  short  for  an 


246  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

instant,  and  then  darted  forward  to  cross  the 
street.  But  it  was  too  late, — the  figure, 
wraith-like  in  the  fog,  glided  into  the  shadows 
and  vanished. 

Two  or  three  minutes  passed  before  I  had 
recovered  my  self-possession.  Then  I  ran  up 
the  steps,  and  let  myself  into  the  house.  Of 
course  it  was  all  folly, — I  had  not  really  seen 
Lauriston  at  all,  only  someone  hurrying 
home,  as  I  was  doing.  I  tried  to  believe  this. 
The  man — or  whatever  it  was — carried  an 
object  which  looked  like  a  book  under  his  arm. 

It  was  no  use, — I  was  decidedly  nervous  as 
I  entered  the  library  and  lighted  the  gas. 
It  was  in  this  very  room,  I  remembered,  that 
I  had  that  last  interview  with  my  poor  friend, 
the  night  before  he  set  out  on  his  quest  for 
that  sinister  book, — that  book  which  had 
brought  disaster  upon  so  many  of  its  owners, 
if  all  the  stories  were  true.  I  found  now 
that  I  more  than  half  believed  them. 


OUT     OF     THE     FOG  247 

As  I  sat  there  by  the  dying  fire,  something 
— a  sound  perhaps,  caused  me  to  look  up, 
and  out  into  the  entrance  hall.  The  front 
door,  which  I  must  have  left  ajar,  was  slowly 
opening!  In  the  dim  light,  from  the  one  gas 
jet  in  my  library,  I  could  see  it  swing  back. 

Then  Lauriston  entered. 

I  saw  him  as  plain  as  ever  I  saw  anything 
in  my  life.  My  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of 
my  mouth;  I  could  not  speak, — a  horrible 
icy  paralysis  held  me  bound,  as  if  in  chains. 
He  looked  directly  at  me, — his  eyes  seemed 
to  bore  into  mine.  Then  he  spoke: 

"Have  you  got  anything  to  drink?"  he 
asked. 

This  from  a  ghost!  In  all  supernatural  litera 
ture,  I  have  never  heard  of  a  similar  utterance. 

"Is  it  you?"  I  asked  faintly. 

"No,"  he  replied;  "it's  the  Dowager  Em 
press  of  China,  in  my  clothes.  Do  you  mind 
getting  her  a  drink?  She's  chilly." 


248  THE     SECRET     BOOK 

"But,— but— " 

"But  you  thought  I  was  in  Paris?  So  I  will 
be  in  another  week.  I'm  not  due  there,  any 
way,  till  the  first  of  next  month." 

He  advanced  into  the  room  and  lighted  a 
cigarette.  I  watched  him,  spell-bound.  The 
cigarette  smelled  exactly  like  the  villainous 
brand  he  always  smoked.  I  got  him  the 
Scotch,  and  a  siphon.  He  poured  out  a  large 
drink, — for  a  wraith. 

"I  thought  I  saw  you,"  I  hesitated,  "over 
in  the  park." 

"Very  likely  you  did.  I've  been  here  twice 
before.  Been  walking  around  to  keep  warm. 
Br-r-r-r-r!" 

"But  what's  the  matter  with  you,— you 
look  so—" 

"The  matter  is  that  I  got  in,  this  morning, 
on  the  '  Hectic/  after  the  roughest  trip  they've 
had  in  five  years.  Three  days  I  was  sick, 
and  the  other  three  I  just  couldn't  eat.  I 


OUT     OF*    THE     FOG  249 

was  bounced  out  of  my  berth  twice  in  the 
night,  and  I  slept  only  about  four  hours  dur 
ing  the  whole  voyage." 

"What  are  you  here  for?  Why  did  you 
cross?  " 

"Wouldn't  you  cross  if  you  had  something 

you  could  sell  to for  twelve  thousand 

dollars?" 

He  named  the  wealthiest  book-collector  in 
the  world. 

"What  is  it?" 

He  smiled. 

"The  Secret  Book,"  he  said. 

And  he  took  it  out  of  his  pocket,  and  placed 
it  on  the  table  before  me. 


END 


INDEX 

Anon,  Complete  Works  of,  119. 

Bath-tubs,  Novelists  Keep  Their  Characters  in,  too 

much,  239. 

Bees,  Sherlock  Holmes  on,  69. 
Book-auction,  Mysterious,  145. 

Centre  of  Earth,  Lauriston  Reaches,  129. 
Cigarette,  How  to  Roll  a,  74. 
Cocktail,  Ptomaine,  266.  Ifrlo 
Cuckoo,  First,  Be  Suspicious  of,  104. 

Degradation,  Bottomless  Pit  of,  213. 

Dime  Novels,  204. 

Drood,  Edwin,  Mystery  of,  46. 

Education,  Marvels  of,  183. 
Fools,  Book  of,  9. 

Ghost,  see  Wraith. 

Gobbling,  Effect  of,  on  Professors,  9. 

Gosh,  173. 

251 


252  INDEX 

Helena  Landless  Theory,  Dr.  Watson  Believes  in,  59. 
Hell  Fire  Clubs,  Futility  of,  22. 
Hyena,  Prof.  Sears  Imitates  a,  171. 

Ibid,  Tragic  Death  of,  115. 
Information,  Useful,  32. 

Johnson,  Owen,  Football  Hero  Indignant  with,  229. 
Kilts,  Not  Worn  by  Bibliographers,  25. 

"La!",  Heroine  Resolves  to  Say,  241. 

Ladies'  Home  Journal,  Editor  of,  Does  Not  Wear 

Helmet,  179. 

"Librarian,  The"  Column,  Pratt  Furious  with,  150. 
London  Times,  Thrilling  Nature  of,  97. 
Rollicking  Humor  of,  97. 

Murder,  Small,  by  Author,  21. 

Nilghai,  Unmarried,  86. 

Oldest  Library  Joke  in  Existence,  173. 

Ostrich,  Correct  Conduct  when  Sat  upon  by  an,  88. 

Oysters,  Innocent,  Sacrifice  of,  243. 

Pantalettes,  Small  Sister  Wears,  235. 
Perseverance  Island,  75. 
Polar  Bear,  How  to  Shoot  a,  124. 
Ptomaine  Cocktail,  see  Cocktail,  Ptomaine. 
Pythons,  Gigantic,  in  Library,  84. 


INDEX  253 

Queen  of  Saxony,  see  Saxony,  Queen  of. 
Queer  Conduct  of  Ghost,  247. 

Rabbit,  Welsh,  73. 

Red  Whiskers,  Sunflower  Looks  Well  with,  6. 

Reference  Librarian,  The,  187. 

Road  to  Hell,  200. 

Salad,  Three  Ages  of,  104. 

Saturday  Review,  Does  Sapsea  Edit,  51. 

Saxony,  Queen  of,  see  Queen  of  Saxony. 

Secret  Room,  132. 

Shadows,  Lauriston  Disappears  in,  149. 

Sniff,  Mrs.  Buntin  Begins  to,  198. 

Snorers,  How  to  Discourage,  12. 

South  Pole,  Correct  Language  in  Discovering,  123. 

Telegraph,  Full  Directions  to  Make  a,  34. 
Thermometer,  Large,  Hard  to  Swallow  a,  4. 

Unicorns,  Preposterous  Book  on,  16. 
Vanishing,  Habit  of,  149. 

Whiskers,  Red,  see  Red  Whiskers. 
Wraith,  Peculiar  Remark  of  a,  247. 

Xoanon,  Definition  of  a,  163. 

Yaw,  Ryerson  Does  Not  Know  How  to,  94. 

Zamboanga,  Spotted  Serpent  from,  227. 


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way  in  which  he  makes  his  people  live.  His  versatility,  for  he  can  turn 
out  a  bit  of  grim  tragedy  or  a  tale  brimming  with  humor  with  equal 
facility,  makes  him  everybody's  author.  The  present  book  is  a  col 
lection  of  particularly  human  stories  based  on  a  variety  of  emotions 
and  worked  out  with  consummate  mastery  of  his  art. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Filth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN   FICTION 


The  Reconnaissance 


BY  GORDON  GARDINER 

With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  George  Harper.    Cloth,  i2mo, 
$1.35  net. 

Unusual  both  in  thought  and  in  character  is  this  briskly 
moving  story  of  adventure  in  which  a  young  man  ultimately 
finds  himself.  The  action  is  vigorous  and  the  tale  of  the 
youth's  endeavors  to  overcome  certain  deep-rooted  traits  in 
his  nature  appealing.  The  novel  is  distinguished  by  the 
vivacity  and  crispness  of  the  author's  style.  For  the  most  part 
Mr.  Gardiner  reveals  his  theme  and  portrays  his  people 
through  dialogue,  thus  imbuing  his  book  with  a  liveliness 
and  an  alertness  which  the  reader  will  find  most  pleasant. 
Opening  on  the  veldt  in  Africa  with  a  situation  of  striking 
power  and  originality,  the  scene,  in  the  course  of  the  plot, 
shifts  to  other  lands,  bringing  in  a  variety  of  well-drawn  and 
interesting  men  and  women.  Like  A.  E.  W.  Mason's  "The 
Four  Feathers,"  to  which  it  bears  a  slight  resemblance,  "The 
Reconnaissance"  is  a  story  of  courage,  raising  in  perplexing 
fashion  the  question  as  to  whether  the  winner  of  the  Victoria 
Cross  is  a  hero  or  a  coward,  and  answering  it  in  a  way  likely 
to  be  satisfactory  to  all. 

THE    MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers         64-66  Fifth  Avenue         New  York 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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date  to  which  renewed. 
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NOV  2?  '954 

NOV 1 7 1966 
SENT  ON  ILL 

JAN  2  6  2006 

U.C.  BERKELEY 


LD  21-IOOm-l, '54(1887816)476 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


